


Freak

by shinkonokokoro



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Explicit Language, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Mystery, Romance, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sighed as the unmarked car pulled up to him outside of the clinic. Shifting his jacket to his other hand he pulled open the door and slid into the seat. “Mycroft. I suppose it's been a few months. Have to keep your skills intact?”<br/>“Hardly, John,” Mycroft returned with his same blank smile. “Now John. It is fairly obvious that Sherlock cares for you.”<br/>“Oh really? That's certainly the last I was expecting to hear come out of your mouth.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game Unsteadily Afoot

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this for the past some months, and it's nearly complete, but I have to start uploading it, lest it burn a whole in my brain. It's the fic I've kind of considered my Sherlock 'mangum opus.' :) So I hope you guys like it. I'll be uploading it over the course of the two weeks or so.

John sighed as the unmarked car pulled up to him outside of the clinic. Shifting his jacket to his other hand he pulled open the door and slid into the seat. "Mycroft. I suppose it's been a few months. Have to keep your skills intact?"

"Hardly, John," Mycroft returned with his same blank smile. "Now John. It is fairly obvious that Sherlock cares for you."

"Oh really? That's certainly the last I was expecting to hear come out of your mouth."

"Painfully obvious."

"Only to the Holmes' is it obvious..." John grumbled.

"As he has begun to care for you, I should like to take this opportunity to remind you that Sherlock is very sensitive."

"He—wha— _sensitive_?" John spluttered, thinking of every time the man had made associate, victims, and suspects cry.

Myroft only shook his head with a pitying glance. "John. Sherlock has always been a senstive child."

"Right. Between the two of us, Mycroft, I believe I've less misconception about the man. And I'm fine with it." He reached over to open the door while they were stopped at a traffic light, Mycroft's grip suddenly crushing his wrist.

"This is something you need to understand, John, lest you injure my brother unknowingly." He cocked his head at John and then sat back as they moved again. "Did you know that Sherlock did not speak a word until he turned ten, John."

He blinked. "No. No, I didn't. That's strange, sure, but what does—"

Leaning back and crossing his legs, Mycroft laced his fingers and sighed. "I am reluctant to divulge more of my brother's past than he might be comfortable with sharing. However, you are apparently a case worthy of extra consideration. Therefore, I am making an exception."

"Yes of course. I'm sure he'll enjoy you nodding in on his business," John retorted, curious despite himself.

"It is important for you to know. Therefore you shall be informed. My brother would probably threaten to kill me if he knew so I will of course, require your discretion. As a child, Sherlock could perhaps be described as a sponge. He absorbed everything and anything, intelligence reaching far above his grade level. However, it might serve to illustrate my point more accurately if you were to see for yourself, rather than listen to my rambling on." Mycroft gave him a small smile, eyes glittering. "It may come to no surprise that, from an early age, I had taken an interest in surveillance." He produced a CD in a thin jewel case and offered it to John. "I would, of course, watch it while alone—probably at the clinic, and then destroy it when finished."

John took the disk, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"

"The disk covers Sherlock's childhood and what I could gather of his uni years. Enjoy, Doctor Watson."

Sighing, John slipped the disk into his jacket pocket and pushed the door open as they came to a stop in front of 221.

"Good day, John."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

The car pulled away silently even before John was through the door.

"What did my brother have to say," Sherlock asked as soon as John got in.

"Not now, Sherlock." John hung his coat, transferring the disk into the papers in his hand.

"He's upset you. What did he say?" he persisted, craning his head around from the couch in order to scrutinise him. "It was about me."

"Yes. Because everything is about you, Sherlock."

"And now you're being defensive. Interesting. Pass me my laptop."

"It's right next to you. And I've surpassed my Holmes quota for the day, so I'm taking _my_ laptop and going to my room." John stepped over the piles of books, skirting experiments to grab his laptop and head to his room.

"So not to watch porn then—"

" _Sherlock!_ "

"You're hiding something from me, John. I'll figure it out," Sherlock waved from the sofa.

"Yes! I've discovered your birthday!" John grinned to himself as he heard the strangled noise behind him as Sherlock fell off the sofa.

Once 'safe' behind the closed door of his bedroom, John started up his laptop and pulled the disk out of the case. "Well... the only way it'll give you answers is if you watch it..." He popped it in, plugged in headphones and pressed _play_.

Five minutes in and John had come to three conclusions.

Once. Sherlock was the most darling baby he had ever seen. Thick mop of black curls with chubby cheeks and huge watery blue eyes to freeze a person in their tracks.

Two. Mycroft could have probably had a very successful career in film making, had he not chose to go the route of Big Brother.

Three, Sherlock indeed, said nothing. The earliest footage appeared to be from when Sherlock was two. There were all sorts of occasions represented on the film, Mycroft's young voice appearing in the background as he talked to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes always tracked him.

By four, Sherlock seemed to have grown bored of the camera, minding his own business as Mycroft filmed. He walked around carefully and always with purpose, incredibly self-possessed. He scowled frequently at Mycroft—nice to see some things don't change—but there were moments when he seemed to catch Sherlock unawares and the boy would be reading, a soft smile gracing his lips.

At six, he had his own science kit and John bit his fist at tiny Sherlock, already stick-thin and taller than national average, squinting over some project in protective glasses. Mycroft had apparently learned the art of being covert because more of this footage depicted Sherlock smiling blindingly down at his findings.

Then there was Sherlock on his first horse. Sherlock swimming lazily in the pool. Sherlock studying. Sherlock lazing in the grass, various tools and collections of grass in vials around him. Sherlock playing with a puppy. John again bit his fist.

The recording cut abruptly, and the sound of a voice startled John.

"I don't understand, Sherlock," a woman's voice said. "it's not as if you can't talk. Enough doctors have examined you, for God's sake. You're not dumb. All your teachers say you're quite brilliant. On paper, of course. However, they all have the same complaint."

Silence.

The view shifted from a doorway with half of a woman's figure from the back down to show a surly-looking Sherlock, hunched and arms crossed. The floor seemed to be the current object of his wrath. John was also surprised to see a rather livid bruise high on his right cheek.

"You don't speak," the voice continued with a sigh. "Goodness knows I've taken you to enough shrinks to know there isn't anything they can suss out. Could you _write_ your reason for not speaking, Sherlock? I've really reached my utter wit's end."

Sherlock tossed his head and rolled his eyes.

The woman sighed tiredly, like it was all just routine. Something being revisited ad nauseum. "I just don't know how to help you..."

"He doesn't need help," Mycroft's voice said quietly.

Sherlock looked up, directly at the camera and suddenly the screen was shaking and went black.

John sighed as the scene changed to Sherlock again, playing the violin. It was the first time he'd seen it on tape and it nearly took his breath away. He wore a small suit, hair looking as if the attempt to tame it had been made. His eyes closed, Sherlock's body swayed into the music as the notes soared and dipped. John's heart hurt. This was Sherlock speaking. Here were his thoughts and hopes and aspirations and heartaches and disappointments.

The camera must have been on a tripod, but Mycroft swivelled it smoothly to show the woman he'd heard but never fully seen on camera. She could only be Sherlock's mother, her profile and coiffed curls the same.

A concert then. As several other people appeared at the edges, all in formal clothing. Family reunion perhaps.

Sherlock finished with a flourish and satisfied smile and the intimate audience erupted with polite but not insincere applause. He bowed.

John rewound to listen and watch him properly. Sherlock never played like this anymore, little virtuoso... He sometimes woke to strains of something haunting in the small hours of the morning, but nothing so lovely as this. The applause sounded again, and after Sherlock's bow, he launched into something fun and lively, almost bubbly. John smiled. Sherlock's view of himself as a child.

The concert went on for a good twenty minutes more, all the music memorised. John treasured it. Then jumped as his door swung open. He quickly minimised the video and pulled one of his earbuds out. "Yes Sherlock?"

The man frowned, squinted. "It's nearly seven o'clock John. Dinner."

"Huh," he glanced at the time. "You reminding _me_ about dinner. How about that."

"What's kept you?"

"Oh. Episode of Doctor Who." He smiled, keeping his face soft.

Sherlock scowled. "Come call for take away."

"Call yourself," he replied, not wanting to leave little Sherlock.

"I'm hungry."

John sighed, knowing the rarity of that statement was designed to bring him downstairs. Relenting, John quickly changed his password, shut off his laptop and trudged down the stairs.

He didn't get to the film again until the next afternoon.

Sherlock was about ten. There was much more footage of his playing, but as soon as he would notice Mycroft, he would suddenly screech the bow across the strings horribly.

He huffed a laugh at Mycroft's soft cursing and more frequent scene changes.

There was more of Sherlock surrounded by science experiments as well as a few quiet scenes of him lounging in a window seat.

Then John was suddenly confronted by Mycroft's own round face fixed in a scowl. "He spoke. He finally spoke. Mummy is thrilled. But I missed it. He was agitated and then finally ran off over towards the copper on the corner. I followed. Didn't have my camera. Of course. He did that on purpose. Told the man there'd been a murder. I bloody missed it." He shifted the camera and glared. "Now of course he won't bloody stop. The murder must be what he figured out two days ago. Explains his agitation. Damn..."

The next scene was Mycroft and Sherlock shouting at one another, the camera forgotten on the bed. If John had to guess, it was Mycroft's room. Too neat for Sherlock's. Finally Mrs. Holmes burst into the room and threatened them both with a year of solitary confinement.

John had to laugh at the Holmes boys' twin expressions of absolute horror.

The filming went grey and fuzzy for a moment before changing to CCTV footage mostly just images of a teenaged Sherlock—looking darling in his school blazer—running around town. Always by himself, giving the cameras two fingers every so often.

John shook his head.

The teenaged years were short, quickly turning into Sherlock at university. Here, John recognised him more easily, his height established. He frowned. He was too thin. Still mostly on his own, though there was another bloke that sometimes appeared at Sherlock's side. The two-fingered salutes to the camera increased, the other boy laughing along. The time stamp told him, after he did the maths, that this would have been Sherlock's first year. The mystery of who he was was cleared when he and Sherlock snogged obscenely beneath a lamppost.

Second year, October, Sherlock's gait was heavy and the expression on his face was pinched, tired. He looked..well. He looked awful. His face was too narrow, cheek bones cutting sharply across his features. The cameras followed him, but Sherlock resolutely ignored them.

John frowned. Something had happened. The other bloke wasn't around. Break up?

Sherlock wobbled home one night, swaying, hair plastered to his head. Drunk? On...drugs... Sherlock had alluded to drugs in his past. Was this... This must have been the start of it. Because of the man?

John nibbled at his lower lip. The footage only got worse. Sherlock shaking. Sherlock jittery. Sherlock with eyes too bright that even John could see through the CCTV cameras. This was...worse than he had ever imagined when the thought bubbled up to the forefront of his mind.

Finally, video of Sherlock in the hospital, pale, drawn, twig thin, eyes little more than sunken pits, in and out of consciousness. Mycroft yelling— _yelling_ _—_ at a man who was pleading to see Sherlock.

Sherlock's breath rattled in as his eyelids fluttered. "Matthew..."

"See!" The man-Matthew said, pushing past Mycroft. "He wants to see me! Sherry..."

"Matthew..." he said again, summoning the energy to give him a flat stare with bloodshot eyes. "Get the fuck out of my sight; if I ever see you again I'll feed you your bollocks and then cut off your head."

Matthew scrabbled back, face going white, and John saw Mycroft reel back on his heels as well at the flat vehemence in Sherlock's voice.

"Get the fuck out of my sight," Sherlock said again, voice detached and emotionless.

John felt chills down his spine. Did the maths. Sherlock's third year. There was a bit more to the hospital, Sherlock covered in tubes ad wires, IV drip. Mycroft chastising him for being careless and irresponsible. Mrs. Holmes crying and holding Sherlock's hand, looking vaguely horrified and in pain.

There was one more.

Sherlock. Moonlight streaming in, violin cradled like a lover in his hands while he tuned. Raised the bow. Drew it across the strings in the most beautiful and haunting version of the Moonlight Sonata John had ever heard. His chest clenched and he buried his hand in the skin over his heart as if that would make it stop hurting. Moisture plopped down on his hand, another tear rolling down his face. Sherlock played until he passed out, Mycroft sneaking in and lifting the violin from his hands reverently.

The remainder of the film was Sherlock getting involved with Lestrade, a drugs relapse on the job, and finally, a quick scene of Sherlock, running, John chasing after him. That first night. From Angelo's. When John first ran, after being home from Afghanistan.

"You made me run again," John murmured as the video stopped.

His phone buzzed twice.

 _Be_ _careful,_ _Doctor_ _Watson_. Mycroft.

 _We're_ _going_ _out._  
 _SH_

John sighed and hid the disk, washed his face and joined Sherlock downstairs. "Where to?"

Sherlock frowned at him on a second glance. "What's wrong?"

"Hm? Nothing."

"You've cried," Sherlock accused, boxing him in.

"Oh," John huffed a laugh. "It was the episode. Terribly sad."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, muttering, "...foolish to over-associate with characters from a telly program... Grab your jacket. Lestrade has a case."

"Of course he does."

When they got there, Lestrade handed over the file without a word. Sherlock immediately had it spread across Lestrade's desk, eyes scanning furiously, methodically, like he was aggressively downloading all of the information. Peering over his shoulder John thought, perhaps he was. "That's strange..." He murmured, eyes drawn to the strange symbols surrounding the body in the photo.

"Yes, John," Sherlock muttered back, eyes still devouring. " _Dammit_. Why didn't you leave the body for me to examine!"

"Freak getting huffy about his corpses already?" Donovan sneered.

"It was sent to us from the north—Gateshead, if I remember correctly. I'm sorry," Lestrade said wearily, ceasing his pacing.

"Of course, of course," Sherlock snapped, mostly to himself, still looking through the information.

"Some sort of cipher?" John asked.

"In a minute, John. Male, 38 or so, architect but not currently working. Fired recently and looking for new employment. Most likely doing private work while searching—he pays his bills on time and his lifestyle hasn't changed much for being out of work for just over eight months. He's lost weight—not eating lunch, therefore busy, therefore working an independent job, For someone wealthy. He had a deadline, working late hours almost every night, divorced but wears his ring still... He's not looking for a relationship."

"Wow," John said when Sherlock finished his crazed monologue.

Lestrade shook his head. "And the cipher?"

"Blood. Most likely our victim's—yes, this is confirmed, page 2, he was killed by exsanguination due to his arms being slit, wrist to elbow. He did it himself, but... he was forced—this wasn't a man who wanted to die. Do we have his affects?"

"Not yet," Lestrade replied. "It will arrive tomorrow."

"Good. Text me immediately. I'll need to see his phone and wallet."

"Jesus," Sally said lowly, "You're like a computer. Put all the info in and an answer pops out."

'Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "More like a calculator in function if you were to use that analogy. It is nothing more than aligning the whole of the information and making the paper deductions. But none of you idiots ever stop to _look_." He shook his head. "I'll take the photo to work on the cipher. Text me tomorrow—"

"As soon as his effects come, yes, Sherlock."

Narrowing his eyes at Lestrade, Sherlock gave a curt nod and then swept past John, making him trot after to catch up.

"This isn't his first victim," Sherlock said once they were in a cab on their way back to Baker Street."

"How do you know?"

Eying him cautiously, Sherlock laced his fingers in his lap. "It's too creative. A man killing for the first time would start off with something much more dull, like a stabbing, or a garrotting. Or a shooting. This..."

"Sherlock..." John's mind buzzed with the one name he didn't want to say.

"I know, John."

"Is it?"

"I don't know," he snapped, immediately looking almost...apologetic. "The data is... too inconclusive to say for certain."

"But chances are good it's Moriarty."

Sherlock shot them a quick glance full of...worry? Guilt? Apprehension? "I fear it."

John nodded, suddenly wanting his gun. "Right. So if we decipher what's written, we'll know for sure?"

"I hope so..." Sherlock said seriously.

They worked on it back at the flat for four hours to no avail.

"Ugh..." John groaned. "These symbols look so familiar! Why can't I..."

Sherlock hummed, having retired to stretching out on the sofa, fingers steepled, looking for answers on the ceiling.

"Not helpful..." He stood and stretched upwards, back popping as he twisted left then right. "I've seen them before... School, uni, Harry..." He paced back and forth, biting his lip in concentration.

"For God's _sake_ , John!" Sherlock snapped. "Sit. Down. You're driving me mad."

"Mad. I'm driving _you_ mad? What about all of that screeching on your violin? You're cutting me off when speaking? Running me ragged while telling me nothing? Leaving me behind? Asking me to do your texting for you when it's in _your_ _bloody_ _pocket?_ "

Sherlock blinked at him before swinging his legs over, sitting. "The violin helps me think. You know that. When I cut you off, it's usually because you're about to say something that will only embarrass yourself. You love running around with me, and if I feed you all the answers, how else are you supposed to grow and learn to figure things out for yourself. Your skills have already improved. I don't leave you behind. I leave and you're clever enough to figure where I've gone and follow. And you like being useful. Therefore I ask you to do things for me. You also enjoy being in close proximity to me, I suspect, because of affection, though you haven't realised it."

John opened his mouth.

Sherlock shrugged. "And I don't mind."

Shut it. Flushed and turned away.

"I thought you might appreciate honesty in my answers, though I have belatedly realised they were perhaps rhetoric in nature and you meant to prove that I have habits and mannerisms that put you off. I apologise."

"Christ..." John dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. Dropped them. "Wait a minute...! That's it!"

"Beg your pardon?"

John whirled. "They're runes! Celtic! The Celtic alphabet; I bet you anything!"

Sherlock grinned and was on his feet immediately. "Dinner!"

"What?"

"If you're correct, dinner is my treat."

"Oh. Right. Um. Okay."

Sherlock already had his back turned, typing away furiously and then whirling to snatch up the photograph. "Well done, John," he crowed.

"I was right?" he asked, pleasure warming him.

"You were correct. Now go to bed. You're tired. I'll have this translated by morning when we return to Scotland Yard for our victim's effects."

"But—"

Sherlock waved his protests away. "I'll need you sharp for tomorrow."

"Be sure you sleep as well, Sherlock."

The other man gave him a quick smirk and then lost himself in his work, leaving John to get himself to bed. And time to dwell back on Sherlock's answers to his rhetorically-intended questions.


	2. First Move

Needless to say, he did not rest easy and wake refreshed the next day. Sherlock did not, thankfully, comment on it, though John's hand paused over Sherlock's mobile when he was asked to retrieve it from the window sill. He could only imagine how it got there... Yes... maybe he did like being helpful. He fixed tea for Sherlock when he made his own, trudging into the sitting room and slumping into his chair.

"Nothing from Lestrade yet," Sherlock muttered, full of nervous energy, fingers tapping away on his jittery legs.

"You've figured out the cipher?"

"I have."

John sipped his tea, waiting for the revelation, snapping out a peevish "And?" when it became clear the other man needed prompting. "Sherlock?"

He finally met John's eyes, the normally light grey colour bleeding darker. "It said, 'Let's go swimming again soon.'"

John choked on his tea, dread freezing his throat. "Moriarty," he gasped.

Sherlock immediately stood and began pacing, not looking at John.

"Shit," he said feelingly, missing the weight of his Browning again at his side.

"You'll be safe, John," Sherlock said fiercely, suddenly stopping right in front of him. "I will not allow anything to happen to you..." _unlike_ _last_ _time_. The words left unspoken.

Surprised, he could do nothing more than nod.

Sherlock resumed pacing. "You will remain with me. I will be your best defence. Nothing will happen," he said so surely John believed it.

"Um Right,." He sipped his tea, staring curiously at Sherlock. This was new. This was—Sherlock dove for his mobile as it chirped and then he promptly vanished into his room.

Lestrade then... John rolled his eyes and rushed upstairs anyway to change and returned downstairs to find Sherlock already dressed and tapping a foot, waiting. "Come on, John."

In the cab, he reached over and slapped a hand down on Sherlock's bouncing knee that he could see from his peripheral. Sherlock jumped. _He's_ _always_ _been_ _a_ _sensitive_ _child_. John kept his gaze forward. He leapt out of the cab after paying and trotted to keep up as Sherlock rushed to Lestrade's office.

"Sherlock," the DI began when he entered.

John smiled in a weary apology when Sherlock dove into the box containing evidence.

"John then..."

"What's wrong?"

"Listen, you're not going to like this..."

"Go on," John said, noting Sherlock's slowed movements in the box. He was listening.

"The victim's name..."

"Jason something?"

'Yes. One of our code breakers noticed it yesterday," Lestrade said. "His full name is Jason W Thohn. And..." He threw a glance at Sherlock who was examining Lestrade's face. "It's an... His name, minus an 'h' is a perfect anagram for yours."

Sherlock let loose a stream of low words in several languages, all of them sounding like obscenities.

"Shit..." John backed away, sitting heavily in a chair. "Extra 'h' you say?"

Lestrade nodded.

"My middle name is Hamish."

The DI's eyes went wide, Sherlock's face going tight beyond him. "What's going on? What did you figure out from the cipher, Sherlock? What do you know?"

"It's Moriarty," he said, voice flat.

John suppressed a shudder at his flat mate's cold gaze.

"Fuck."

"Yes," John agreed.

"Fuck," Lestrade repeated with fervour. "The... Jesus. The amount of dedication it took to find a man— _person_ _—_ whose name—"

"I know!" Sherlock barked, looking up from the man's mobile. "I know." He dragged his fingers through his hair until it was wild and on-end.

"Sherlock," John said gently, it'll be fine. It's fine."

The man took a deep breath and went back to looking at Jason's belongings. "Here..." he muttered. "He's left a text. Only part of message... In code. This is... German."

"Is it his clue?"

"The next victim will be German."

"Next...? Shit. Not again." Lestrade groaned, sinking into his chair.

Sherlock didn't reply, though his gaze flicked to John quickly. What it meant, he couldn't quite tell.

"Sir, I—Jesus!" Sally said. "You all look like death..." She glanced at Sherlock, disturbed.

"It's—"

"Shh!" Sherlock interrupted. "Come in if you're coming in. Shut the door."

"What's going on?"

He waited until the door clicked shut before nodding at Lestrade and returning to examine Jason Thohn's wallet.

"It's Moriarty," Lestrade told her quietly.

She swore, looked at John.

He nodded, but his eyes were on Sherlock as he slid a knife into the seam of the wallet, carefully pulling it apart.

"So you want to keep this quiet?"

"And the girl shows she has brains," Sherlock muttered, no disdain to it as he was distracted, pulling a piece of paper from within carefully, fingers gloved.

"Hey, fre—"

"What have you found," John interrupted.

"Part two of the message..." he said with grim triumph. He tossed the rest back into the box. "Dust it. You won't find anything, but go over it very thoroughly. "Black versus white—chess, but he's dubbed himself as white... hence he's first...C2 to C4." Sherlock frowned.

"Great," John said, standing. "More riddles."

"Chess moves, John. Not riddles."

"Yes, but we don't know what they mean."

"I'm done here." Sherlock tucked the paper into a small clear evidence bag. "Text me, of course, should you discover anything new." He swept passed Sally, opening the door.

"See you later," said John and followed him out. "So...what next?"

Sherlock shook his head. "There's nothing until his next victim appears. I need to determine a pattern. This game is new."

They ducked into the taxi and sat in silence for the ride home. John pushed open the door to 221B and hung his coat. Sherlock did the same and then headed straight to the sofa. "I'm going for a shower," John said quietly before creaking up the stairs. That was true. However... He started up his laptop quickly, pulling up the video as well as Audacity. Queuing up the violin scene, he pressed 'record' and then played the video to record the sound for him to keep. Mycroft didn't want him to keep the disk, but Sherlock's violin wasn't something he could let go. He saved the files and uploaded them to his iPod. Then he took the disk out, broke it, and dropped it into the rubbish bin. And finally showered.

Once he was clean, dry, and dressed, he went back downstairs for lunch. "Discovered anything new?"

Sherlock yawned. "The height of a man can be determined by the depth of the impression his foot leaves, his stride, and his weight might be intuited within ten pounds."

"Fascinating. Lunch?"

"Mm..."

John took that as a yes, sighing at the meagre contents of the fridge, and settled for throwing together two sandwiches. "I hope you like ham. It's all we've got." He set the plate next to Sherlock on the table and then settled himself in his usual chair. "Have you ever been in a relationship, Sherlock?"

"Thank you."

"What?"

"For the sandwich."

"I never see you...you know..." he frowned, wondering why he thought asking would be a good idea. "I never see you with anyone, and I guess... Well. I know you said you were married to your work, but have... have you ever?"

Sherlock dropped his hands flat on his abdomen and stared at John's profile. "I have."

John blinked at him, meeting his gaze. "Oh?" As if he didn't know. "I...wondered."

"Twice."

John shifted. "What..." He waved a hand.

Sherlock chuckled. "Interested in my love life, John?"

He flushed. "Curious. I...don't know that much about you...your past."

Something dark passed across his visage and then he smiled wanly. "Twice. Once in uni, and once towards the end of sixth form. Neither went particularly well. And ended even more poorly."

John nodded. "What...what were they like?"

Tilting his head thoughtfully, he sighed. "Leon was old for his age. We attended the same school. He was intelligent and witty. A year younger than I, it ended when his mother thought I was taking advantage and influencing him poorly. So she sent him to his father in America. Though I found his address, he never wrote me back. Matthew..." Sherlock's voice turned darker. "Matthew I met in uni." He stopped then, reaching over, took a bit of his sandwich.

Just when John was sure he wasn't going to continue, Sherlock said, voice almost as if lost in memory, "Matthew was brilliant. He was very opinionated. Adventurous. He was more socially aware than I, less sheltered. More worldly, I suppose. He was a year ahead of me, took me 'round. Showed me some things. Some good. Some...not so good. I thought he cared for me." He shrugged. "I was mistaken. It ended very poorly." _In_ _a_ _world_ _of_ _drugs_ _and_ _illness._ _Sherlock_ _was_ _always_ _a_ _sensitive_ _child_. "There you are. Now you know. Curiosity satisfied."

John smiled. "Thank you for telling me."

Giving him a curt nod, Sherlock spilled the information from the file around him on the table and sofa, drawing out his violin. Instead of scratching, however, Sherlock played vague pretty little melodies.

As the light from the window began fading, Sherlock rolled fluidly off the sofa. "I believe I owe you dinner, John." He straightened his collar, brushing his hands over his front, smoothing creases and retucking the hem.

"Oh. Alright."

"Angelo's or—"

"Angelo's sounds good." He rose and took the plates back to the kitchen, Sherlock's still holding most of his sandwich.

Angelo greeted them warmly, seating them at the back, Sherlock's usual table taken.

"This is nice too," John said. "Quiet. Secluded."

His flat-mate scowled at the menu, however, refusing to be placated.

John chuckled. "Sherlock, it's _fine_. We're here to eat. And presumably enjoy one another's company. So just enjoy the food."

Angelo brought their meals quickly and John tucked in, enjoying the better fare. Sherlock picked, but ultimately ate well also. They talked little, John relating his first girlfriend and a few tales from the war, listening eagerly when Sherlock told him of family trips to France.

Electing to walk home, John convinced Sherlock to watch telly with him, laughing as he criticised the team of Doctor House had under him until he was nodding off. So when Sherlock told him to go to bed, he stumbled upstairs and into bed.

* * *

The next morning, Lestrade called them in.

"Where was he found?" Sherlock demanded.

"He's a tourist—"

"From, Germany, yes, we know."

Lestrade blinked in surprise. "How—yes. Right."

"Unimportant. Where was he found?"

"An abandoned flat. Name is Lester Reggad, only 18. Nothing stolen—"

"Do you have the photo?"

"Yes, similar cipher marks around him in the victim's blood. Dead for two days before found. The town is small. South England by the coast. By Exeter."

Sherlock grabbed the offered photo, John looking over his shoulder as he sat on the arm of a chair.

"Those aren't the same symbols."

"No they're not, John..."

"Do you know what they are?"

"Russian Cyrillic."

John grimaced. "Jesus, looks like he was cut open and used as a paint palate. Those letters were painted."

Sherlock hummed, brows knitting. "So they were. Good eye, John."

That warmth again from praise. He shook his head to clear it. "His things are being sent over?"

"They'll be here tomorrow."

"He's moving much faster," Sherlock murmured. "Outside of London. Teasing that I can't examine the bodies in person by the time they're found. No similarities between the victims so far. What does he _want_? It's a game. To what end? To entice me? Drive me mad? Not killed in similar places, methods, manners, age group, profession..." He froze. "Give me paper!"

Lestrade, started into action, gave him a half-crumpled bit.

"Biro!"

John pulled one from his pocket and handed it over.

Sherlock scribbled. "E...g...d...and..." He stood straight, the biro falling from his hand. "Lester Reggad. Greg Lestrade. They're warnings. Warning concerning people..." he trailed off.

"Shit. Bloody buggering—"

"Right," John said quickly. "So now what? Are we targets then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "My Cyrillic is a bit rusty. Lestrade, you're safe. I'm almost certain of it."

"Your almost certain is pretty good..." the DI replied nervously.

"All the same, don't go home alone. And whoever you pick, _don't_ pick Anderson, for _God's_ sake."

John chuckled and followed him out and back to Baker Street, "Well," he said once inside. "You know Russian?"

"Da, chutʹ-chutʹ"

"How many languages do you know?"

"Fluently or conversationally?" he replied eventually, fingers flying over his keyboard.

"Well. Both. I guess."

"I know...five fluently, and...eight more conversationally."

"You're... _amazing_..."

Sherlock blinked at him, then looked down. Embarrassed? "You're easily impressed."

"You are, Did you figure out the message?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to make me ask again?"

"It says we should catch fireworks together."

John grit his teeth. "Bastard."

"I quite agree."

"You're sure Lestrade's not a target? This seems more insistent than last time."

"No. Greg Lestrade isn't in any immediate danger. Sending him home with another officer made him feel safer. Moriarty is trying to put _me_ off. He's working very hard to point out those few people who are...important, for lack of a better word. To me."

There was that warm feeling again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John. You are important to me."

"So... what? Does he want us to find him?"

"Of course. I believe that's the game. Always has been the game. He wants to tease me and see if I'm clever enough to catch him. If he can't have me at his side, then I must be his foil."

"Could he..." John frowned. "He won't go after Mycroft, will he?"

Sherlock's face told him everything he thought about that.

"Right. Of course. So what's his aim then?"

"I don't know!" The empty mugs jumped as he thumped his fist down on the coffee table.

"It's alright," John said quickly.

"Don't patronise me, John."

"Hey. I'm just... I'm not patronising. It's fine. It's fine not to know."

"Well not for me!" Sherlock snapped, jerking away from the offered hand.

"What do you mean? _Everyone_ doesn't know sometimes. Lookit you," John returned indignantly, "not knowing the Earth—"

"If you bring up the fucking solar system one more time, John...! It's not okay for me to not know when it involves you ending up a _bomb_!" Sherlock yelled.

John reeled back, air hardly passing between his lips, let alone words.

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut audibly before standing and then suddenly fleeing to his bedroom and slamming the door. John was still standing at the spot Sherlock _had_ been. Finally... "Huh."

Then got up and did the dishes.

* * *

The next call from Lestrade didn't come for eight days. The first three he didn't see Sherlock out of his room. Mortified he supposed. _Sensitive_ _child_. The quiet was nice. Conversely, however, it also left John with far too much time to think of his strange ability to read Sherlock better these past ten, fifteen, thirty days. Perhaps the pool had been the inception of this ability. It wasn't like the man was really any less inscrutable. Maybe now he could speak Sherlock fluently instead of just conversationally.

Here he laughed at himself, putting down his book. Ridiculous. Ridiculous that Sherlock was hiding away like a four year old. Ridiculous that John was now speaking _Sherlock_. Ridiculous that he was entertaining all of these thoughts about _feelings_ anyway. So he popped out his earbuds and cleared away his dishes, leaving everything else untouched. Except... He rushed back to the sitting room and gazed around, the idea bringing a smile to his lips. He moved a paper half under the couch, brushed away some of the dust on top of the lampshade, and then swapped Sherlock's slippers, right to left. Then he carefully drew out Sherlock's violin and lifted it to nestle beneath his jaw and drew the bow across the strings in a way that made dying animals sound harmonious.

Sherlock, as predicted, came running, an utterly horrified expression on his face. "Stop! _Stop_! What the hell do you think you're _doing_?"

John immediately lowered the bow. "Ringing Pavlov's Bell."

If horrified had been one to treasure, horrified/affronted was _gold_.

John cracked up, allowing Sherlock to take the violin with careful grabby hands, all the while berating him incredulously.

"—not _funny,_ John! What were—"

"Sherlock! There are three things in this room that I've changed, besides moving your violin, my dishes, and my book. Write them on a piece of paper for me when you find them. I'm going for groceries."

"Not alone," he replied sharply, though his eyes lit at the presented challenge.

"You said I wasn't a target. I'm going. You've been sulking for three and a half days. I need to get out."

Frowning, Sherlock's eyes were already darting around the sitting room.

"I'll be fine. I'll take the Browning."

Reluctantly, Sherlock nodded and then that was the end of that.

He was still inspecting when John got home from Tesco. He was still examining when John went to bed. He woke early the next morning, starting terribly and nearly throwing Sherlock off his casual perch on the side of his bed.

"Sherlock!"

"I've made my list, John. The lampshade, my slippers, and the hearth."

"Not the hearth," he grumbled, rolling over.

Sherlock frowned and vanished. Only to wake John again mid-morning. "The paper."

"The paper," he said tiredly.

Sherlock beamed. And that was how John unwittingly learned that once the kraken was released, there was no controlling it. So when Lestrade called just before noon the eighth day, John actually felt faint and gasped, "Thank God!"

Sherlock snatched the offered photo like an addict for their drug.

"Jesus," Sally said, her lip curl of disgust matching Anderson's.

"Shut up, the both of you!" John snapped, too drawn to deal.

"Name?" Sherlock demanded.

"Molles Rhosheck. It's your name this time, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

Eyes tightening, Sherlock stilled. And after the days of crazed frenzy, to which John had borne witness, this was eerie and...wrong.

"She 'won' a trip to England. She's—"

"Swedish. Possibly around 70, clay thrower, retired teacher. Two children. Five...four grandchildren..."

"Yes. 73. Died—"

"Heart attack. Drug-induced. He injected her in the neck. Here... He brought her here... Where was she found?"

"South east coast. Dover."

Sherlock nodded, eyes still absorbing the photo.

"Anyway," Anderson said, expression of disgust still going strong. "We dusted and combed everything. Found a few hairs. But they belonged to the victims."

"Of course they did," Sherlock mumbled.

"What's the new message?" John asked. "Looks like Asian letters."

"Yes, John. So it is."

"Should we—"

"Shut up, Anderson. Get out," Sherlock finally snapped.

John was a little impressed he'd been around for so long already.

"No fucking way!"

"Anderson," Lestrade said wearily. "Please..."

"Director, I can't believe you let—"

"Anderson! Just...for the greater good."

"Lie back and think of England," Sherlock muttered absently.

"What?" Sally shrieked. "That's—"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said over them all. "May I use your computer?"

The DI blinked at the courtesy, shocked into agreeing. Though Sherlock was already seated and typing away.

"The message..." Sherlock jerked back from the computer. "The closest translation in Japanese, a language, I am merely at a conversational level, John," he said flatly, "is that we should have dinner. He finds my company delectable and longs for a special time for the two of us."

"Sick," Sally whispered.

The chair thrust back as he stood, Sherlock almost ran out of the room.

" _Sher_ _—_? Sherlock!" John called. "I'll—"

"Go on," Lestrade waved him away.

John sprinted. He found Sherlock in the men's loo, thanks to some bystanders, and pushed the door open slowly. "Sherlock?" He didn't answer but was gripping the sink so tightly bone showed through his narrow fingers. Face flushed, he was having a staring contest with himself in the mirror. "Hey... What was that all about?" _Sensitive_ _child_ _Sensitive_ _child_ _Sensi_ _—_

"I won't be capturing him alive, John."

John tilted his head thoughtfully.

"I don't care that that's a bit not good, but I—"

"Would you like to borrow my gun? Or would you rather your own?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped to him, the widening betraying all of the shock he was likely to. Then he laughed lowly. "I fear my ambiguous morals may be rubbing off..."

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Moriarty's a son of a bitch who made me a bomb, terrorised us, hurt you, and frankly I don't see him deserving of lasting long on this Earth." He shrugged. "He's likely to just escape anyhow. And that _cannot_ happen."

Staring at him, Sherlock pursed his lips, the corners twitching up ever so slightly. "You are amazing, John. You surprise me more frequently than I could have predicted."

"Um. Thanks?"

Sherlock let go of the sink, reaching a hand towards John that never quite made contact and then stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Come on then, John." And brushed by him with a small smile back to Lestrade's office.

"Sherlock! What was tha—"

"Doesn't matter. That was Moriarty's third strike."

"Baseball metaphor?" John grinned at the annoyed toss of his flat-mate's head.

"So what next? We can't always be one step behind."

"Of course not. So we are going to find him. I'll need the case papers."

"Sherlock, I need to know what's going on," Lestrade said tiredly, looking up at the man leaning over his desk.

"As much as it pains me, I don't know yet. I need to think. I'll let you know as soon as I know."

The DI sighed. "Very well. Take them. It's not like you wouldn't get them anyway if I told you no."

Sherlock smirked. "You flatter me."

"Don't pretend it isn't true, you miserable bastard," Lestrade retorted, but he was grinning. "John. Be careful. Of course."

He nodded back and then made his way out of Scotland Yard, Sherlock on his heels, pouring over the papers already. John made tea when they got back and then sat, waiting for Sherlock's muttering to begin. He pulled open one of his medicinal journals while waiting.

"Three points. A map. A triangle. A centre of focus? Focus..." He trailed off.

"The centre of the triangle?"

Sherlock rummaged through a stack of books, pulling out an atlas and a ruler and marker. He muttered to himself some more before letting out a triumphant cry. "He'll be in Coventry." He grinned at John but suddenly looked away, face twisted in a frown.

"Sherlock?"

"I need to go alone."

"No. Absolutely not."

He scowled harder. "Don't be stupid, John. I can't take a police battalion with me."

"Of course not, you idiot: me."

"Out of the question."

"Well you're sure as hell not going alone!"

"I have to! That's what he wants!"

"Since when do you do what _any_ one wants? You're not going alone!"

"If I don't go alone, he'll just disappear and other innocents will be hurt! I thought you cared about that, John!"

"Well I care about you too!" There it was then. John blinked, refusing to look away.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed softly.

"Interrupt another argument, did I?"

They both jumped, Mrs. Hudson puttering in with a plate of cookies. "Susan's daughter made them. They've got nuts so I can't eat them! Thought you boys might enjoy them... Have a nice day."

John sighed heavily as she left, dragging a hand over his face. "God dammit..."

Scuffing his feet slightly, Sherlock focused intensely on the plate on the coffee table. "I...you're not going. Because... I don't..." John almost laughed at Sherlock's frustration from lack of words. "I do not want to see anything adverse happen to you, John, therefore, I will not put you in harm's way."

"You're not, I—"

"Also because I fear how poorly I would cope with your absence."

John flushed. "That's...sweet, but I've gone with you in the past."

He shook his head. "Regardless, I will not take this risk. _Because_ it's Moriarty. And he is unpredictable."

"Then take Mycroft! I don't care! But you're _not_ going alone!"

Reeling back, horrified, Sherlock grabbed at the desk. "I would rather take Anderson!"

John laughed. "No you wouldn't!"

"True."

"What if...what if neither of us went?"

Sherlock moved to the sofa. "I doubt that would do either of us any good. He would just start something else. And be very angry. That is a non-solution."

"Right. Well. We'll have to come up with something else then..."

Rolling his eyes and flopping back, Sherlock steepled his fingers. "I shall endeavour. Until then, my plans are to leave tomorrow."

"Take out for dinner then?"

"Whatever you want."

"Your turn to order. Indian. And don't make the poor delivery girl cry again when you pick it up downstairs."

Sherlock scoffed. "That's why you should do it."

"You're right. I'll call. You are still bringing it up then," John grinned at him.

He sniffed and rolled off the sofa, striding towards the kitchen. "Call in an hour."

John nodded, smiling as he picked up his journal again, the sound of Sherlock banging beakers around in the background.

He must have fallen asleep because some time later, he found the phone stuffed into his hand, Sherlock's curt order of "Call." intruding on the remnants of a dream about cheese thieves and flying robots. He dropped the phone into the cradle of his lap after he called and dozed, missing Sherlock heading downstairs to pick it up.

When he woke fully again later, the flat was dark and his belly pricked uncomfortably with hunger. "Dammit. Sherlock! Why didn't you wake me!" He pushed himself to his feet and turned on the light. His mobile said 9:37. "You stroppy bastard... You didn't eat it all, did you?" John thumped into the kitchen, opening the fridge where, hopefully, Sherlock had stored the leftovers Frowning, John went back out into the sitting room. Then to Sherlock's room. Empty. "Shit, you didn't..." He charged back to the sitting room, but Sherlock's coat was still hanging... Shoes still by the door, meaning... He looked back to the sofa. Slippers gone. Ah. Talking to Mrs. Hudson then. His heart calmed, John shuffled back to the kitchen and made himself some dinner. After a rather wretched half-episode of Eastenders and blog updates, John headed upstairs, kindly leaving the light on. So _some_ people could _see_ where they were walking.

* * *

He managed to walk through the sitting room to the kitchen, getting his tea started, before his brain caught up and realised what was wrong. He moved back to the doorway, mug in hand. Frowned. The light was still on. The one he left on for Sherlock to see by when he got up from visiting with Mrs. Hudson. In his slippers. But his slippers still weren't by the sofa in their usual place. And his coat was still hung. And... John set the mug on the counter and hurried to Sherlock's room, rummaging through his things. Luggage still here. He didn't go off on his own after Moriarty. John nibbled at his lip. "Sherlock? Sherlock, if you're here, please answer me if you're here!" He checked the bathroom, his own room, and even the roof before going downstairs to check with Mrs. Hudson.

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Good morning to you too!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Forgive me. Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Not since you boys came in yesterday; I heard you up the stairs. He run off?"

"I don't..." John frowned, gaze drawn to the front door. There. One of Sherlock's slippers.

"John?"

He moved towards it slowly, kneeling but not touching it, an icy sense of dread like he hadn't experienced since he realised he'd been shot in Afghanistan skittering up his spine. "He came down. To get the Indian. I fell back asleep..." he said numbly. "He never came back up. Oh God..." John flew back up the stairs and tore through the papers and dug through the sofa, pulling out Sherlock's mobile. He thumbed through his contacts until he found Mycroft's number. Then stabbed the call button.

"I think he's been taken. Get here now!" he ordered.

"I shall be there immediately," came the cold reply before the line went dead.

John stuffed the phone in his pocket and then went back to the slipper.

"John dear?"

"I...I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock's... Mycroft's coming..." His voice ended in a whisper. Then squinted closer at the slipper. "Is this...? This is sand. Mrs. Hudson, this is sand."

"Yes. Has Sherlock gone and gotten himself into trouble again?"

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Hudson that trouble found him this time," he said lowly, straightening to open the door for Mycroft. "Here. Be careful. There's sand also." He looked up, suppressing a shudder at the cold glittering look in the elder Holmes' eyes.

"It is time to end this Moriarty problem once and for good," he promised in a flat voice.


	3. In the Desert, You Don't Remember Your Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just adding in a warning for torture in this chapter.

Drugged, Sherlock realised as soon as he had the capacity to think in a logical form again. In floated as well. Moriarty's too-cheerful voice sounded far away through the ringing in his ears. Then—a hand across his face.

* * *

 _Painpainwaterhotpaintiredhurt_

* * *

Screaming. Physical reaction. Unbidden.

* * *

Keep count. How many days. Fifteen.

* * *

"Cherie... Why don't you talk to me anymore... This is growing dull," Moriarty whined.

Sound choked through his closed lips. _Painwaterpainhungrypain_

* * *

How many days? How many... Mustn't lose count...! Twenty-two days now? Hard to tell. Jim's face swam sharply into focus— _grinningmadbastard_ _—_ before his body treated him once more to unconsciousness.

* * *

 _Painmorepain_ Shit. _Waterhungrypainhot_

* * *

 _Druggedpainhotneedle_

* * *

 _painpainPAINPAINPAIN!_

He woke screaming.

"Ooh! Awake again! Finally!"

"Stating...obvious..." he croaked. Breathing hurt. Light as eyelids fluttered. Hot. Drugs wearing down. He smelled. Naked. Hot.

"Tut tut, Sherlock... I'm only trying to be persuasive..." he sounded hurt.

"Fuck...you..."

"Would you like that? Won't Johnny get mad?"

Sherlock couldn't summon the energy to lift his head from his chest. Shoulder dislocated. Wrenched behind the chair. Ribs bruised—not broken. Not. Arid. Dry. Desert? No, he worked that out ages ago

"So will you reconsider?"

Sherlock moaned.

"I'll even throw in some cocaine, since you seemed so fond of the stuff earlier. The morphine seems to work better for you, honestly."

He shuddered. Fingers broken. Dehydrated. "Water..."

"Aw, thirsty? Acheri, get the poor men some water." Moriarty laughed.

He swallowed the water slowly, long deep drinks to chase away the gritty sensation in his mouth.

"I bet Johnny's looking so hard... I left him a hint, you know," Moriarty said gleefully. "Do you think he'll figure it out? Well... He's not quite smart enough is he. But maybe with Big Brother Holmes' help he will..."

Of course Mycroft helping.

"Or maybe I should send him a memento. Something dear John would enjoy. Hair is much too priceless. Would you miss a finger, cherie? You don't need them all for that silly detective work that you do. Hm?" He giggled. "What? Nothing to say?"

Best offer a moan. Couldn't give that satisfaction.

"Maybe a foot... That—oh, Acheri. Bring me the salt water."

Sherlock flinched back at the cold finger touching his cheek.

"Thank you, Acheri. You know, cherie, with the almost pliant qualities you display, I do get a trifle...bored. Your skin seems to be almost healed..."

This time he _did_ moan when Jim's finger pressed into the raw skin of his thigh. And screamed when the salt water sluiced over his body.

"Ooh! So much better! Another day or so and we can pull off another layer! I don't want you to bleed out, after all. Which did you think is better again? A picture for Big Brother and the Littlest Soldier? Or a foot. Can you answer me?"

 _Lightpainpainpain_ J o h n. Say something. "...I..."

"He speaks!" the man crowed. "Ooh! I know! I'll send him all of your finger and toe nails. That should be fun! I've..." Embarrassed. "I've catalogued everything, you know. I've told you before, but I don't think you could hear me then. You _were_ unconscious. Every sound, every expression. Every twitch of your muscles, every reaction. It's fascinating. I loved it. And only gotten better as you've been here. Much more expressive. When you're awake that is. You pass out much more frequently. You poor fainting flower." Moriarty sighed.

"Fingernails it is. And maybe a layer of skin. Now... As an experiment, on a scale from one to ten, tell me how painful it is."

Clank, noise, shudder, warmth—he's close. Still drugged. ! He screamed.

* * *

"I'm disappointed, cherie... You passed out after only seven... And now you're shivering. You do know it's eighty three degrees, right? Tut tut. Shock then. Nothing for it..."

* * *

"Are we ready to continue? Eight nails left. Ready?"

Look. See. Remember. John. He groaned. "...wa...ter..."

"Oh yes. We can do that," Moriarty said indulgently.

Sherlock shuddered. Drank. Day...twenty-four? Twenty? Too long.

"They've made it to Tunsinia." He chortled. Completely wrong area, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"Acheri... Egyptian..."

"Ooh! The boy _does_ still have his wits about him! _Very_ good!"

Sherlock shuddered.

"Well, can't keep the post waiting... Let's have the rest of those nails. I need to get them off before misters Holmes and Watson move hotels."

Screaming. Again. Dull. Pass out.

* * *

"Cherie! Are you awake?" Moriarty called.

Skipping. He's skipping.

"There we are. How are the fingers and toes? The little piggies didn't make it home? Well, Johnny-boy was _not_ happy with his present. I left him my number, just in case he wanted to have a chat. Surprise! He did! Left a message... I couldn't come to the phone you see. You should _hear_ how angry he was... He was never that angry during our brief time together. He must really care. What's that? Methinks the man doth protest too much!" Moriarty sing-songed. "Shall I play it for you? Here. I'll be kind. Turn the volume up and everything. Too bad Big Brother couldn't trace the phone..." He tittered.

"—riarty! You bloody son of a cock fucking _whore_! If you send me another _thought_ of Sherlock I am going to cut you _apart_!"

"Tsk tsk. The mouth on him..."

"Do you understand! Joint by fucking _joint_! And I can promise you—! I won't _touch_ an anaesthetic. As soon as I get my hand on you, you _sick_ _fuck_."

Moriarty giggled, a disturbed little snicker out his nose.

Sherlock roused the energy to open his eyes enough to catch the end of Jim's little foot-tapping dance.

John's voice abruptly dropped low, heady, and lethal. "Because let me promise to you, Moriarty. And take this as utter bloody truth, so help me, I _will_ get my hands on you you filthy fucking animal. And I will put you down like the _bitch_ you are. You won't even make it into the justice system—"

"This is my favourite part!"

"—and they'll have to collect your remains in a _bucket_!"

Bursting into full-fledged laughter that made Sherlock flinch due to psychological and decibel objections, Jim closed the phone and pocketed it. "Johnny does have promise, doesn't he."

Twenty seven days, he thought tiredly as the world lurched left and vanished again.

* * *

Next registered consciousness had Moriarty leaning over him with a mournful moue. "You died, Sherlock. That wasn't very nice of you..."

Explained the burn in his chest and the ache as he inhaled. Or maybe that was the bruised ribs and dislocated shoulder. Missing nails. Broken fingers. Stripped skin. Whip lashes. Burn marks. Knife cuts. Various other reasons that would cause his body to betray him and simply shut down. Not to mention the dehydration, lack of food, and forced drug use.

He cracked his eyes and blinked a couple of times until it didn't hurt to do so.

"Hullo, darling."

Sherlock shuddered.

"You're awake! How about some water. You did wet yourself when you died."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on the cool metal along his back. Some sort of hidden bunker, rock ceiling, natural cave, fitted for electricity. Temporarily. He accepted the thick arm behind his shoulders through a muffled groan of pain and wince to drink the water in. Slow and steady. "How..." The word didn't even make it out fully, so he coughed and tried again. "How...many?"

"It's only been forty two days. I've not been this fascinated for _years_! I should have done this _ages_ ago! All the information I've gathered from this... Sherlock, you're even beautiful in death. I love this. Eyes sunken in—oh I bet you'd be so distressed if I gave you a mirror. You were always rather self-focused, weren't you. Narcissistic, though you pretend you're not. All about the mind, you say. Does John tell you how lovely are? He would, silly little soldier. So sentimental. Ah-ah... be careful, Sherlock. We don't want your heart stopping a second time, do we?"

 _John_. One of the only things he could bring himself to care about anymore. Body useless, mind in pieces, disoriented.

"Even your trembling is lovely. Every time I say something to you, you do so. Did you know that?"

A spark of irritation.

"I've conditioned the great Sherlock Holmes! Sent Johnny a video to prove it," he said gleefully.

Risking cracking his eyes again, he caught Moriarty's obsessive, enamoured stare and promptly turned his head away as he shook in earnest.

"He had harsh words for me again. Would you like to hear them? Have you missed your beloved's voice?"

He grit his teeth and looked around for something to focus on. Acheri wasn't in sight. His heart monitor bleeped erratically, telling him precisely how poorly off he was.

"I wonder if I could keep you until you were little more than a skeleton... Hang you in the corner..." Moriarty said dreamily. "I think I love you, Sherlock."

Door towards the back, curtains up around him—privacy. Interesting. Only Moriarty and Acheri.

"Just feed you less and less. I see your ribs already. And clavicles. Oh dear. I forgot about the shoulder. Must be dreadfully painful..." He giggled. "Anything to say, cherie? Did you want to hear Johnny's message? They're looking _quite_ hard. John's so frustrated by the lack of results. He and Big Brother had a nice row about it, I heard."

Sherlock snorted, grateful to imagine the scene on the insides of his eyelids. Oh John... when did you start caring so much?

"Mm... I thought you might find that entertaining. Well. Time for dinner. I've got steak tonight!" He clapped his hands and then there was silence save for the retreating stride and the click of the door.

Heaving in air he didn't know he'd been denying himself, he opened his eyes to the light and the headaches, as well as a bit of the world spinning with him not caught up.

At least having died means he was no longer restrained, he realised, as he tested his limbs. Muscles responding, but terribly weak. He'd probably not make it more than a few steps if he attempted walking. And yet...

Opportunity was unlikely to strike twice, nor so generously.

He rolled carefully to the side of his good shoulder with bad fingers, gasping as everything shot white and _pain_! _No_. He needed a plan. Lying flat, he passed good fingers over himself to assess, shuddering as the digits caught on raw skin, cuts, and welts. The heart monitor bleeped slightly faster.

To his right—tray with needles and other...tools. He looked away quickly to focus on breathing. And facts. Needles. Possibly morphine. Take the edge off the pain. Expedite his escape. So he inched his legs across the metal—a corpse trolley. He was on a corpse trolley. Control the fall. Gasped as his heel hit the floor—warm, littered with sand. Desert. Of course it was pervasive. Twinged as he flexed his foot. Nothing broken. Now for the second leg. After about a half hour of tediously slow movements, he had both legs hanging awkwardly over the side and had pulled himself into a sitting position. Other foot twinged as it hung. Broken.

Now he could see more, the curtains thin. A few rugs, a chair, thick books, one probably a journal, more medical equipment and...tools, a rolling smaller trolley carrying some bottles, leftovers from a meal, and utensils. The silver tray close to him did indeed have a syringe with morphine. While loathe to inject the potentially—unlikely but potentially unclean needle, he was going to need the reprieve from pain.

The saline IV had probably helped some in cleansing his system of drugs, and though it was hard to tell what reactions were coming from what, he knew he needed the hydration. Grabbing ahold of the pole that held the bag, he leaned forward, forcing the arm to snag the edge and pull it closer. After the morphine, he clung to the metal pole until the pain began to ebb and he could test how much his legs could hold.

Nothing, apparently, as he fell with a grunt. Sherlock took a moment to focus on breathing before making the effort of pulling himself up the metal IV stand. Anyway he could, he had to. He had to escape. Pushing his feet across the floor in a sort of abbreviated shuffle, he made it past the curtain to see what there was that he could use. Desert. Clothes. Water. There was a spare shirt on the back of the chair. Moriarty's. Tilting his weight against the chair, he pulled it on, grimacing. He paused again to catch his breath and not move so the shirt didn't chafe against his raw skin.

After an hour passed, Sherlock had gathered a significant amount of water, fashioned trousers out of the curtains, pinned together and and torn a scarf out of the spare material. Also a pen torch and a scalpel. The edible food on the plate, Sherlock wolfed down. He finished the luke-warm mug of tea as well. Creeping to the door, he heard no approach of footsteps or voices, leading him to the conclusion that Moriarty and Acheri were taking their own rest or the bunker was large enough that he could hear them. He moved back to the table, taking up more of the extra curtain material to function a sort of satchel to it, hands shaking slightly. Scowling again at the physical betrayal, he put all that he'd gathered into it, wrapping the blade of the scalpel.

A final glance told him there was nothing more he needed, and so removed the IV and covered the inconsequential-by-comparison wound with a piece of gauze and tape.

The door opened quietly enough, so Sherlock scuffed his feet along, good shoulder bolstered by the steady wall of the narrow hallway.

Private residence then, utilitarian. One of Moriarty's hiding places.

He paused before a doorway, stilling. No sounds of breathing. No sounds of movement. Chancing the risk, he peered around the corner. No one. Acheri's room. He appropriated a pair of trousers, loose diaphanous things, a lighter, and a jacket.

A crazed laugh from Moriarty made him jump. Searching the hall, there was no one, but another open door that held Moriarty and Acheri, he presumed. No way to sneak passed. Jim wouldn't sit with his back to the door.

His lips spread bleakly across his lips as the idea came to him once he spotted the smoke detector.

He was quickly arrested as he heard a voice coming from Moriarty's mobile. "—ty. I know Doctor Watson has left you several voicemails. I would like you to know that if my brother does not turn up whole and in possession of his faculties, then I will have no problem standing aside while the good Doctor uses his skills for previously unimagined creative purposes."

Clearly it was serious for Mycroft to phone himself. Sherlock didn't know if he'd even heard that particular shade of disdain and threat of pain before.

"One more note, James. Should Sherlock not turn up? I shall have no problem putting my entire weight behind my endeavour of bringing you in myself. And John Watson will not touch you. I will."

He frowned. More serious than he thought. Retreating to the sound of Moriarty's grating laugh, Sherlock once again took catalogue.

Child's play, of course.

Taking the morphine vial and two clean needles, he distributed the rest of the chemicals throughout the room, the thought of putting Moriarty out of house making his lips pull back form his teeth.

Hobbling back to the door, he paused to light the fluids and then shut the door quickly before finding a hiding place in Acheri's room. He closed his eyes, resting, counting down until the flames and smoke would set off the alarm.

He smiled again, lips spread taut, when the alarm wailed and Moriarty raised his voice to join it. "What's— _NO_! No no no _noooo!_ "

One set of feet, two... There's the door—shrieks as the flames licked out hungrily into the oxygen. He got to his feet and loped down the hall as quickly as he could. He paused and grabbed Jim's mobile and a hat before searching his way outside.

Moriarty's scream of fury fuelled him forward into the light and sand. Shading his eyes, he looked up and then headed west, Sherlock mostly controlling his fall down the dunes after he fought his way up. He grit his teeth against the pain—everywhere, sand clinging to his raw sweating skin beneath the clothes. Pausing behind some rocks, he tied his arm up in the make-shift scarf, his hair and the fabric covering the back of his neck.

Once he was convinced he was far enough out, he found shelter by another rocky area. The mobile had no signal out here. Of course. So he pulled the failed trousers over him and curled in on himself for a few hours of sleep, the alarm on the phone set. He pulled out the scalpel and shut his eyes to wait until night for travel.

* * *

Sand sand sand dull sand hot water pain sand rock hot hot rest hot water pain pain pain pain pain pain hot sand John sand hot sand pain pain hot John water nibble rest no reception sleep cold move along John sand pain John pain sand pain water John sand pain no reception John _John!_ pain sand hot

The pattern of Sherlock's mind over the course of the next three days in the desert, having taken a bit too much morphine. Everything's fucked up for reasons he can't grasp, he's hot (or terribly cold), he's almost mind-numbingly hungry when he can think about it, misses John terribly, tired, so in pain it's a surprise he's even moving at all, and finds himself missing John's sturdy presence at his side.

He frowned, setting up shelter as mid-morning neared. He had to be careful. One might easily become witless out in the desert as such. But Sherlock Holmes was not of the race of weaker men. He laughed to himself. Checked the mobile. Four days. No signal. Almost no battery. He needed civilisation. John and Mycroft were looking. For him. He giggled. Mycroft was _very_ angry. Moriarty, however, had not found him. He supposed he had the desert winds to be grateful for that.

Sherlock held the scalpel at ready, head falling back against the rock. Bit off another giggle. But not the third that bubbled up, even as it choked into a gasp and shudder of pain from his shoulder. It was swollen badly,and he'd pop it back in, but he didn't know how. And he didn't want to do more harm than good.

The noise faded away into a soft whine as his eyes burned with tears. All of the frustration and pan and stress blurring his vision and leaking down his cheeks.

One moment of weakness.

That he allowed because it lubricated his eyes which previously felt like they had a layer of gravel beneath his eyelids.

He scolded himself off before long, however, because it was a waste of his body's water.

So he slept.


	4. Interlude -Mycroft-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violent imagery and language warning.

Mycroft knew his brother wasn't dead.

He hadn't the photographic evidence to back it up, but he knew. Call it a tedious gut feeling. To him, it was inarguable fact.

However, amidst the lengthening period of time Sherlock had been gone and Doctor Watson's increasingly darker and more creative mutterings about the thing she wanted to do to James Moriarty, Mycroft's worry had risen to previously unseen levels. Thirty-seven days did not look good. In any sort of hostage situation. And for every hour Sherlock was in the hands of Moriarty, the less chance it was that he might come home whole. Physically and otherwise.

And while Mycroft had, in the past, been accused of being cold and unfeeling, by a great many people, that simply was not the case. Some peoples' emotions just ran deeper and then burned hotter when aroused. He liked to liken his emotional situation to a pressure cooker. All of the ingredients were present, and when the pressure was applied, things cooked and became _more_ than what they _were_.

Needless to say, thirty seven days was a long time for Mycroft to cook. Doctor Watson had passed his limits five days ago—admirable, considering the depth of his attachment to Sherlock, whether he realised it or not, as well as his need to be doing _something_ in order to be of use. So Mycroft sent him on an errand, after letting the man compose himself, to retrieve information. Mycroft planned.

Hands clasped behind his back, his eyes roved across the information he had tacked up on the hotel room wall. Rather like a murder board one saw on those police dramas. He made a quick call to his assistant, recognising the need to check back with London. He left her in charge, also giving her access to the satellites over Northern Africa to help track Moriarty and Sherlock. It had, thusfar, been of no help as Moriarty was crafty, and Sherlock... Sherlock was. Well. One didn't know. Did they. Perhaps an embedded GPS tracker would be helpful for the future. Sherlock would hate it. But... the boy sometimes prompted extraordinary measures. Such as him in a hotel in Tunisia with Doctor Watson. He hadn't done field work in years. Decades. Finding one person in the Sahara desert. Two people. But only one that he needed back alive.

He frowned at the scattered organised information, lines in his brow deepening. "Damn you, Sherlock. I need _something_." He moved back and set the kettle on as he heard John's footsteps thumping down the hall. Finally. Something.

John burst in and thrust the file at Mycroft, holding a small box in his other hand. "A package..." he panted.

Mycroft set the papers down and grabbed the cardboard box, slicing the tape with a nearby knife. John edged into his personal space, trying to peer into the box as Mycroft opened it.

The doctor let out a low stream of curses, slowly growing more vicious and more creative. Finally he whirled away and slammed his fist down on the wooden desk, curses louder, leaving Mycroft to stare down into the box of bloodied fingernails.

Mycroft pulled a piece of paper out of the box.

[ _Small_ _mementos._ _Cheers,_ _Johnny._ _Call_ _me._ _0743308463486_ ]

Mycroft set it on the table, leaving the pile of ruined nails in the box, trying very hard not to let his emotions get the better of him.

John stomped back to the table, snagging the paper before Mycroft could hide it. "That... that _unbelievable_ bastard. That..." He shook his head, eyes wide with awed anger. "That's fucking it!" He hissed, grabbing his mobile and punched in the number. "You bloody fucking snake, Moriarty! You bloody son of a cock fucking _whore_! If you send me another _thought_ of Sherlock I am going to cut you _apart_! Do you understand! Joint by fucking _joint_! And I can promise you—! I won't _touch_ an anesthetic. As soon as I get my hand on you, you _sick_ _fuck_." The man finally took in a breath, voice dropping low to levels Mycroft had not heard out of him. There was the line, apparently. He took note of Doctor Watson's borders. "Because let me promise to you, Moriarty. And take this as utter bloody truth, so help me, I _will_ get my hands on you you filthy fucking animal. And I will put you down like the _bitch_ you are. You won't even make it into the justice system, and they'll have to collect your remains in a _bucket_!" He threw his mobile against the wall and bellowed, panting as he looked around, eyes a little wild, looking for violence.

Mycroft sat still, glance coolly appraising. "Are you finished."

" _Shut_ _up._ "

"Yes, of course. However, Doctor Watson, I need you to focus all of that energy on finding my brother. Because like it or not, I'm helping. And I promise you, I _will_ not stand in your way when we find Moriarty."

John's eyes took on a gleam as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Oh. Um. Right. Excellent. Of course. Yes... Um. The file!" He picked it up and set it on the table, spreading it before the two of them.

"I can see why you are an adequate companion for my brother, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said lowly. "I have been incorrect in my assumptions of you."

"What?"

"My brother needs someone like you in his life. Steady. But willing to risk everything. And what I told you before was true. My brother does care for you."

John stared at him, face a little blank. "Jesus. That seemed like so long ago..."

"I'm sure," he said dryly. "Nevertheless, I do not regret giving you the information that I did."

John shuddered. "We have to get him out of Moriarty's hands."

"I couldn't agree more."

They bent their heads to the problem at hand: interpreting the information given, and determining how and where to move forward.


	5. Interlude -John-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Lots of foul language and perhaps some disturbing imagery?

They'd just switched hotels, and Mycroft was down in the internet-capable lounge, since the rooms weren't wi-fi ready.

Running around London with Sherlock was dangerous and fun. This was... This was _not_ fun. He paced in the room, any and all thoughts of Sherlock making his jaw clench until he thought his molars might crack under the pressure. He certainly had once already.

He was trying. Trying his damnedest to be clever. Be clever for Sherlock. But there really was nothing to go on. Because Moriarty was a cunning cock-fuck of a whore. "Stupid slimy arse-faced bastard." The words were quiet. Lethal in the silence. Fists clenched, he literally ached to come through on his promise. The intensity of his lust for violence bothered him. But only a little. He'd never wanted to physically hurt someone so badly before. Even in the war. His gun felt light in his hand, a part of his arm. Mycroft had made...arrangements for him to get on the plane with it. And while he was here, he'd acquired another, strapped to his calf.

He stopped pacing, eyes falling on his mobile. Moriarty's number still in it—untraceable—but still in it meant he could call again. His lips pulled back in, what he imagined, must be a not-good smile, but he hit the dial button anyway, suddenly feeling more cheerful than he had in a while.

"Hello, you miserable ball sack. Just thinking of everything I'm going to do to you has cheered me up considerably," he said after the leave-a-message spiel ended. "I might blow out your kneecaps. If I'm feeling kind. I might just stick a knife up your arse and wiggle it around a bit. I'm a bit surprised I said that aloud. I meant to keep it a secret. More of a bit-not-good behaviour I seem to be trending. Whatever I do, Moriarty, you can bet it's going to hurt like motherfucking hell. Fuck, I might give you a little boost of adrenaline just to keep you awake. After all, I _really_ want you to experience everything I'm going to give you. We've no word from Sherlock. So I guess that means I should start making my to-do list. See you later, Moriarty." He run off and seconds later Mycroft entered the room with lunch and more papers. John sighed. "I'm guessing you heard everything."

"I haven't a clue as to what you mean," Mycroft replied mildly.

John nodded, silently thanking the man for not commenting on his new-found penchant for brutality. It was Moriarty-specific. So he didn't think he had a lot to fear. "Excellent. So then. What have we got?"'

Mycroft shook his head and sighed. "Unfortunately, nothing new."

John growled in frustration.

* * *

Nothing new didn't change until several days later when Mycroft's assistant phoned and said there'd been a fire in the southern part of Egypt.

"Get every available airborne surveillance you've got available up into the air, Mycroft."

"Anthea had it the moment we knew," he grit out, putting down his phone and pulling over John's laptop, logging in just as easily as Sherlock.

"Bloody Holmes'..."

"You really should try harder, Doctor Watson."

"So? What is it?"

"A private home fire."

"Mor—"

"Most likely Moriarty's, yes."

"And how soon can we be there?"

Mycroft tsked. "Honestly, Doctor Watson. Use your head. We're not going to go charging in there. Have you lost all recollection of your military training?"

John scowled. "Of course not. But the best course of action is to get in while the situation is still a mess and unbalanced. That way we can catch him by surprise."

"We don't have all of the information, John, therefore, we cannot go."

"Sherlock would have!" he grit out furiously.

"And where is my brother now?" Mycroft snapped.

John stared, settling as he folded his arms across his chest. "We're going."

"We're not. Now stop being a fool, and get down to business. We shall leave as soon as we are able. As soon as we are sure."

"That could take ages," John said flatly.

"Not when I'm trying my hardest," Mycroft returned in the same tones.

"Then you'd better keep working," John said.

Mycroft smiled suddenly. "Of course, Doctor Watson."

John turned away to the window, catching his own grim reflection. Soon, Moriarty. Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, thanks so much for reading.  
> The thing I like most about this part is John saying 'Hello, you miserable ball sack.' I can just picture it in my head and it tickles my BAMF!John fancy SO well. So... Yeah. That's all.


	6. A Series of Nightmares

"Sh-Sherlock! You're tracking sand everywhere! What are you— _you_ are hoovering this mess!" John said, his hands comically planted on his hips.

Sherlock looked down by his feet and the small pile of sand there. He stepped away and shrugged.

"Sherlock! Now you're just tracking it! No-no. Stay there. I'll get the hoover from Mrs. Hudson. _You're_ cleaning up your own mess."

"Fine, fine." Sherlock waved him away. "I'll hoover if you get it." He tilted his head, looking around the flat while John's feet thumped too-loudly on the stairs.

"Go on then," John said at his shoulder, startling Sherlock.

"You don't have to stand over my shoulder, John. You're not my mother." He accepted the handle.

"Thank God for that," was John's retort as he folded his arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flicked it on, manoeuvring the thing to pick up the sand. Forward, back. Forward, back. John's satisfied and amused look. When he looked down there was even more sand than before. Why... "John... John it's..."

"Hurry up, Sherlock. We haven't got al day." A glance to his watch.

"What. We've got plans?" he said wryly.

John groaned. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"What?" He looked down. "Wait a minute. John... John, the hoover—"

"Jesus, Sherlock! We made plans _ages_ ago! Please tell me you're at least showering before the ballet...?

"Ballet..." he mouthed, shoulder aching with pushing the hoover back and forth. "John, the hoover is _spitting_ _san_ _—_ "

"Shut _up_ about the bloody hoover! If you didn't want to go, you could have just said!"

Nose wrinkling, he looked at the small mountain of sand the machine was spitting out. "I detest the ballet. I've never liked it. I must have expressed that at _some_ point of our living together." He winced at John's hurt expression. "John, the sand is..."

John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to emit a piercing scream.

Sherlock cried out and slapped his hands over his mouth and—

* * *

—gasped screaming into consciousness, panting. He forced his hand open to drop the scalpel. Calmed himself. It was dark. Chilly. The mobile rang harshly in his palm.

Sherlock shut it off and gathered himself to press on, pushing the disturbing dream from him mind.

* * *

He took stock at the end of the day. Night. While he dug himself into a new shelter for the following day. No food. Very little water. He'd been able to get some dirty looking liquid from the last stream bed he'd dug into. But his strength didn't last long. The torch took more and more convincing to stay on for a period of time longer than five minutes. The mobile registered no service still and wasn't much use past basic functions of date and time anymore.

God. Everything hurt. He was going to die out here. Wounded, psychotic, and alone. No. Not for another... maybe seven days. He still had some water. And hadn't resorted to drinking his urine yet. Though he been saving it. Another two weeks then. If he could keep up the will to keep going. He had to be well into Libya then, and he had been angling North to find civilisation. Not even a nomadic tribe so far. Sherlock groaned as he slumped into his half-shelter, spreading the loose cloth over him to keep the sun from getting to his already burned and fragile skin. Then closed his eyes and repeated the "it was only a dream. Dreams are not real" mantra several times to encourage himself to fall asleep. Healing occurred when one slept. It also passed the hours of boredom of being surrounded by sand and heat for fifteen hours.

* * *

"If you don't get out of that bed this instant, Sherlock..." Mycroft's voice nagged.

Sherlock, resolutely, rolled over and tucked his head into the pillow.

"Sherlock...!"

"Fuck off," he muttered.

"Fine. Drastic measures then... John!"

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his childhood bed, John wandering in, a million thoughts visible on his face. Curiosity, derision, wonder, scorn, appal. "John!" he gasped.

"This is your bedroom? Well. I guess that's how you learned your standards of cleanliness. Or rather... Lack thereof."

He winced. Frowned. "It's not that bad. Surely even you weren't meticulous as a child, John."

"You can't deduce that?" John mocked, stepping forward until he was looming and Sherlock was very small. John lifted him by the back of his night shirt and dropped him again quite suddenly into 221B. "When you make a mess, it's your responsibility to clean it up." John glared over the roofless wall, Mycroft peering down from the other side with a dry chuckle.

"Wait!" he cried out, even as sand poured in from all corners. Sherlock yanked on all doors, none of them opening. Flew to the window, opening curtains that covered walls. Swore, helplessness battling over every sane thought in his head, clamouring with the rate of fill for a room with a length of – a height... He screamed,

* * *

Waking with a pitiable cry and didn't try to sleep for the next four hours until sunset. Resorting to counting threads in the sheerish fabric over him.

When he could move again, ever nerve seemed thankful for the action.

So he pushed onwards. Northwest. Away from Moriarty. Towards civilisation. A shower. Food. Communication.

A small stream bed afforded him the blessing of dumping the bottle of piss and filling it with clean water. It wasn't bitter. Safe. Bent his head after filling to drink slowly. Then dunked his entire head. Hair getting long. Water burned down his chest and back over still-raw skin. But his eyes no longer felt crunchy and his throat was no longer parched. And his lips moistened.

And no matter how tired he was, Mycroft and John were waiting, were _searching_ , for him. So he pushed on, pausing only to look from the top of a dune back where his footsteps disappeared into obscurity. A fierceness tightened in his heart. Distance. He had escaped. Foiled Moriarty, the smug bastard. Died and come back.

He could make it.

Sherlock slid down the dune, climbing another until dawn painted the sands, the sky, the clouds, and he fond a place to spend the daylight hours.

He was asleep as soon as his eyes closed.

* * *

Lestrade was yelling something. He wasn't paying attention. There were three bodies on the ground.

Headless.

He grinned and turned to John, opening his mouth, shutting it when John wasn't there. "John?" He turned towards the bodies once more, only to back away from the fridge in their flat. He opened it and stumbled back in wordless horror as John, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson's heads grinned back at him. He fell back into darkness.

* * *

"Cherie!"

Sherlock fell back in horror, Moriarty's voice coming out of Mycroft's mouth. "Mor...Mycroft?"

"Tut tut, Sherlock... You haven't done as I've asked. It was a simple case. Now John is going to suffer."

A spotlight came on behind Mycroft, featuring John tied to a chair, face bloodied. He lifted his eyes, expression blank, dead. Faintly disapproving. "John," he gasped. John dropped his eyes and looked away.

"It's okay, Cherie. We can deconstruct him together," Moriarty-Mycroft said.

"No!" he gasped. Deconstructing John meant he wouldn't be John anymore, just little pieces of John with no way to put them together again.

"Don't be stubborn," the other chastised.

John started screaming.

* * *

Gasping into wakefulness once again, he choked back a sob. Couldn't do it, couldn't do it... He took a deep breath. God he was falling apart. This was pathetic. Moriarty's torture and psychological dramas had turned him into a snivelling mess.

"John...!" he croaked, lids fluttering closed. The one near constant in his life since they'd met. John was steady. Unchanging. He sighed. The sun was setting. If he made good progress he might find civilization.

He didn't.

Dawn approached leaving him with the compulsion to find shelter. As soon as he'd got a sandy lean-to, Sherlock drained his last bottle of water, having been careless with the other—drinking too fast and spilling precious bits over his head.

He groaned and curled into himself,unable to stop the pitiable shudder that passed down his spine. He wasn't going to make it tomorrow. Tomorrow... John... Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

* * *

"John...?" He walked through the tunnel, heading towards the light and noise, the city erupting into view as soon as the light grew tolerable. Busy and foggy, the buildings stretched out in front of, grey people passing by.

"John? Where'd you go?" He frowned. A whisper of his name made him turn. "Lestrade."

"Sherlock."

"Where's John?"

The DI's eyes widened and then turned sad. "Sherlock... He's... You don't remember?"

"If it's important."

Lestrade huffed quietly. "He's gone."

"Where?" He snapped irritably.

"Dead, Sherlock. He's dead. You don't remember?"

He backed away from the out-stretched hand. "Don't be ridiculous. I just saw him..." When. When did he see John last. When was it? He turned away, Lestrade calling his name. Two days? A week? A month. Flashes of a pool flew through his mind.

"Jesu—Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked back, catching the two headlights out of the corner of his eye. He met Lestrade's terrified gaze, frozen, and then everything went dark.

* * *

"Sherlock... can you get the tea?"

He blinked, the world coming into focus like a camera lens centring. Their flat. London. Home. This was...Was this where he was supposed to be? He looked over at John's chair, surprised to see an old man hunched into the cushions. Oxygen tube running beneath his nose. "John..." he said, voice coming out raspy and weak.

"I just... I can't do it today. I'm too tired."

Sherlock tried to roll himself forward to his feet, panic crawling up his throat as his legs refused to move.

"Jesus... Calm the fuck down," John groused wearily. "You can't walk. Did you forget again?"

"J-john! I don't—I can't—"

"Roll yourself into the kitchen and get the bloody tea. I can't do it today. You _do_ remember how to make tea, right?"

"Of course I—" he broke off coughing. "Of course I can make tea!"

"Haven't forgotten everything then..." he said with a muted sort of fondness.

"What have I forgotten?" he demanded. He rolled the chair closer.

"Oh Sherlock... Can we not do this today?"

"John, I _need_ to know. Please tell me."

John leaned over the arm of his chair and cupped his face, brows tilting up in an expression Sherlock didn't recognise.

"What?" he asked breathlessly.

Then John pressed his lips against his.

* * *

"You're so pathetic, Cherie," Moriarty crooned. "You thought you got away?"

He froze up, opening his eyes to 221B.

"You think home is safe? Home is such a subjective word, isn't it? I took you from your 'home.' If I can take you from there, I can take you from anywhere. Oh look at what I've done to you! You're absolutely shivering. It's just me. Just Jim. Here to play with Sherlock Holmes! Can he come out to play?"

"Get away! Get away from me!" he said, voice weak, trembling and pathetic. He recoiled into the sofa, feeling around between the cushions for John's gun.

"Oh, Cherie..." Jim mocked.

But then he found it and emptied the gun into Moriarty's chest.

Jim laughed and kept walking forward. "You can't kill what isn't real. Isn't that great?"

Sherlock screamed.

* * *

"Freak's finally here."

"About time," Anderson muttered.

"I wasn't aware that I was late."

"That's because you've never aware of anything that doesn't have to do with you or the murder," Sally said.

"That's untrue..." he frowned. "I'm aware of...of John."

"John? Who's that?"

"Oh honestly. Don't _try_ to be stupider than you already are. It hurts me."

"Sherlock," Sally said wryly. "I have no idea who _John_ is..."

"New imaginary friend?" Anderson quipped.

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped back. "That's just asinine. Short, military doctor."

"Sherlock..." Sally arched a brow at him. "Are you...okay?"

"Of course I'm fine! There's nothing wrong with me! How do you _not_ know John?" He turned away from the pair and the body beyond to find Lestrade.

"Sherlock! What can you tell me?"

"Where's John?"

"John? Is he related to the victim?"

"No! Doctor John Watson! My...partner."

"Partner? When'd you get a partner?"

He growled and threw his hands up. "He's been with me these past three months! What's going on!"

"Are you...back on the..." Lestrade's brows dipped in.

"No I'm not taking the bloody cocaine!" he shouted

Anderson and Donovan hurried over. "Sir..."

"Maybe you ought to go home today," Lestrade said, waving Donovan and Anderson off. "Take some time to rest."

"I'm _not_ crazy, you idiots. I don't—"

"You're clearly appearing crazy, Sherlock."

"John!" He whirled. No one was there.

Lestrade grabbed his shoulder, sending him off balance. Sherlock whirled back, jerking the hand off and elbowing the man in the face.

"Oi!" Sally was on him in seconds, twisting his arms up behind his back.

"Ow! That _hurts_!"

"Lestrade? Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

Sherlock thrashed.

"You're going home." Lestrade took his wrists in one hand, pushing the small of Sherlock's back towards the police line, giving him one final shove towards the ribbon.

* * *

He blinked around, lifting the shovel to hoist the soil up and over.

"Keep digging..." Lestrade said.

He hoisted another shovel full.

"Come on..." Sally urged.

Another.

"Get on with it," Anderson sneered.

Another.

"It has to be deeper than _that_ , Sherlock," John said kindly.

Another.

"Honestly. Can't you do better?" Mycroft criticised.

Another.

"I would have thought your perfectionism would have extended to your digging a proper grave, Cherie," Moriarty sing-songed. "Keep digging!"

He couldn't have stopped if he had wanted.

"I'd say eight feet is just about good enough, right lads?" Lestrade said.

"Looks like," Sally replied.

"Then go!" Anderson cried out and shovelled a load of dirt in on top of him.

"You _idiot_!" He raised his arms against the falling dirt from the shovels of Sally, Anderson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and _John_. "What are you _doing_?"

"Goodbye, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

"You will be missed," John said.

"Good riddance," Donovan said.

"You always were more trouble than you're worth," Mycroft said.

"At last," Anderson said.

Sherlock fell beneath the dirt and whimpered.

* * *

"The victim is 18, female, recently having received radiation therapy for cancer—"

"Are you mad?" Anderson said. "She's only starved."

Sherlock frowned at the woman lying in the puddle and gave himself a shake. "It... Yes. She is. She died of starvation..."

"Not like you to miss that," John murmured.

"Hm. Not... Right. Well." He shrugged. "Let me see... She ran from her attacker."

"No she didn't. She's a runner," Anderson corrected. "The treads are more even and have you seen her calves? She's a runner."

"Wrong again," John murmured.

"Shut _up_ , John." He looked over the corpse frantically.

"Actually," Anderson said smugly, "she's a _he_."

"Jesus, Sherlock... You really suck at this, don't you," Sally mocked.

"No... Wait,... No. She—I swear it was a she. It was just a moment."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said with a reproachful frown. "You really are off your game, aren't you."

"No! I was..."

"The corpse is an old man!" Anderson crowed.

"Well you're not very helpful, Sherlock. I think you ought to just go home," Lestrade said.

"What?"

"Come on, Sherlock. Don't protest. It's fine. You're just off your game is all."

"John, I am rarely wrong!" He hissed.

"Go on, Sherlock. We don't need useless bodies at a crime scene," Sally said.

He stared at the corpse and shook his head, John leading him slowly away.

* * *

"You just don't _listen_!" Mycroft said.

"What's...What's going on?" he demanded weakly. He moved to sit, but Mycroft shook his head when Sherlock realised he was tied down. "Mycroft?"

"You can't stop hurting everyone around you, Sherlock, including yourself. I've given up. I can't do any more. Lestrade is done. You are no longer of use to him."

He felt his mouth go slack, hanging open. "Wh...what?"

"And frankly, I am concerned that you are past caring about your wild spiral into self-destruction. So my only option, because I still care about you, is to have you committed."

" _What_?" he hissed after a moment's silence.

"Come on, Sherlock. You can't honestly pretend surprise."

"Preten— _PRETEND_? Mycroft, this is..." He started struggling.

"That's enough. Sedate him."

Panic renewed, he thrashed until his mind felt weak and fuzzy, and then finally blank.

* * *

He gasped and blinked, pavement against his face.

"Why'd you do it?" Lestrade was asking him in a wrecked voice.

"Do what!" Now what.

Sally cursed low ad vicious and he jerked from a foot connecting to his thigh. "You stupid son of a—I always knew you'd be the one. Just couldn't help yourself, hm, _freak_!"

"Sally..." Lestrade warned, but there was no heat behind it. "Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for the murder of Doctor John Watson."

"Disgusting," Sally spat, eyes dark and hateful.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, holding him down while he thrashed and squirmed and bucked.

"Sedate him, put him under. Look at his face. He's pissed himself too. Revolting..."

"Help me hold him down. Sherlock Holmes."

"John—" He moaned, feeling flush with fever and embarrassment.

"Who's John?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm innocent!" he protested.

"Turn him over," Donovan said in disgust. "I think he's vomiting."

Sherlock moaned, batting at their hands weakly. "You've killed me..." he breathed at the feel of a stab in the arm.

"Get him up before he's completely out of it," Lestrade ordered.

"I think he already is," Sally growled, then, her face suddenly in his, " _FREAK_."

* * *

He woke a couple of times, feeling warm but not hot, dry, but not gritty, and fuzzily deduced himself in a hospital by the fourth time he surfaced to consciousness.

Of course, once his mind had him placed he immediately felt the crawl of unease across his skin and terror of being tied down.

He woke frequently from the nightmares also, forced to sleep, kept unconscious for most of the time.

After however many days, he was aware of himself screaming and thrashing into wakefulness, the nightmares now running rampant now they weren't confined by the demands of the desert. Later, he was told it took four nurses and a strong sedative to put him out.

* * *

"—pset to see you like this. Still. Hurt. It's not right. I need you to wake up so we can take you home, Sherlock..." John's soft voice said. It sounded dry, a little rough. He'd been speaking for a while. "Sherlock? Sherlock!"

He parted his lips, allowing himself to float up to the surface, like an object full of air does in a body of water.

"Sher—he's waking! He's waking up!"

"Nnn...oo..." he rasped, fingers twitching even as he registered the heart monitor beeping and the dull rustle of the hospital.

"Sherlock, I assume you can hear me. Blink once if 'yes.' Or... Can you squeeze my hand?"

He managed both, cracking his lids to see John's haggard face swim into view, Mycroft's pinched one beyond, at the end of his bed.

"Sherlock," John breathed, smiling so hard it hurt Sherlock.

He smiled back, but, judging by the alarmed expression that crossed John's face, he didn't quite succeed. "John..."

"Here we are." Patted his hand, holding it snug between his rougher, firmer two.

He was using his doctor voice.

"What's the matter."

Trying to lift his head, John immediately started in on meaningless noises meant to soothe. "Nn...oo..." he said again, tongue feeling thick and clumsy, frustration building.

"What do you need?"

"Wa..."

"Water. Of course!" John smiled and bent, lifting Sherlock's shoulders and pressing a cup to his lips.

Eyes fluttering shut, he sipped at the cool water until John took it away.

"Gone. Better? Do you want more?"

He managed to clear his throat and turn his head side to side. "Fin...ine..."

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock managed a glare.

John chuckled weakly, like it was forced. "Fine. That's fine."

"Wha...t hap...pened?" he forced out, eyes flicking to Mycroft, ignoring the nurses flitting around with his medical equipment. "Chart."

John sighed, but Mycroft moved forward into another chair next to John.

Chart in hand, he waited for his eyes to focus before reading the diagnosis:

 _2_ _cracked_ _ribs,_ _multiple_ _lacerations_ _(eleven_ _stitches),_ _severe_ _contusions,_ _missing_ _fingernails,_ _three_ _broken_ _fingers_ _(reset_ _and_ _cast),_ _2nd_ _degree_ _electrical_ _burns,_ _cigarette_ _burns,_ _dislocated_ _shoulder,_ _dehydration,_ _malnutrition,_ _hallucinatory_ _drugs_ _in_ _system,_ _insomnia_ _,_ _broken_ _toe_ _left_ _foot,_ _foot_ _broken_ _(left),_ _sprained_ _wrist_ _(right),_ _thinned_ _epidermis,_ _raised_ _welts,_ _concussion._ He lowered the chart and sighed.

"The villagers heard screaming and went to explore when it didn't stop. They found you, brought you to the medics. You were transferred to a hospital. John and I came immediately and identified you. You've been under guard. Moriarty is nowhere to be seen."

Sherlock grit his teeth and tried to pretend he hadn't winced.

"Sherlock..." John began hesitantly.

"Enough! I don't..." He stopped to breathe. "It's fine, John. I don't... don't treat me differently. Don't you dare."

"I'm not treating you differently, you idiot," John said, the same old exasperation in his voice. "I was going to say, you'll need to stay here for a few more days before we can transfer you."

"Dammit."

"Yes. You're still dehydrated, underfed, and really hurt."

"Thank you, John," he drawled.

"You were lucky to be found."

"You say it like it's...my fault, Mycroft."

"Enough!" John said firmly, looking between the two of them. "Sherlock, God only knows how you were able to get as far as you were, if you were in Egypt. As places to collapse go, on the hospital steps is a best case scenario, but you picked a pretty damn good one. Mycroft hasn't been sleeping, so _surprise_! He's cranky. Just like you. But he's been worried, to be fair. So you'll have to forgive him. Neither of us knew if you were still alive. And that type of stress does tend to wear on a person. So the two of you _will_ _not_ argue."

Sherlock smiled—hopefully-at John, something he might call happiness sweeping through his body. "What would I do without my blogger." Mycroft moved out of the corner of his eye. "I got your messages."

They both blinked in surprised, his brother's expression turning blank first.

"Mor—he played yours first for me, John."

His flatmate's brows drew in and his whole body curled.

"I only ask that you let me help," he said flatly. "And I don't care if that's a bit not-good. Because if we do it together, it's fine."

"It doesn't make it 'fine,' Sherlock," John said quietly, something running undercurrent to his voice.

It took Sherlock a second to realise it was _rage_. John had never been this angry and he was a little bothered by it. Sherlock smiled. "I would have killed him myself. If not for being more escape-minded. I hate him. I hate him, John. If he goes to prison, he'll only escape. I would. So he needs to be ended."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "As much as I shall pretend I did not hear a conversation about premeditated manslaughter—"

"You said you'd stay out of John's way," Sherlock said blandly. "I overheard your voice mail. Don't be a hypocrite now, Mycroft."

His brother stiffened before dropping his eyes and sagging as the air left him noisily. "We can talk more about this later. I'm just glad you're alive—please stop trying to go through all of your lives in a year. I can't bring you back from that."

Sherlock met his brother's eyes, holding his gaze a long moment and then nodding once.

"Excuse me..." One of the nurses ducked her head in, voice heavily accented. "No more visit hours."

"We're just leaving," John said quickly.

"John! Wait!" He looked to Sherlock. Who looked at the nurse. "They're family. They're staying."

"I'm going to sleep. And have dinner. I'm famished. I'll be back in the morning." Mycroft nodded to them both and then whispered words to the nurse who squeaked and scurried off.

"What's the matter?"

"Stop _asking_ me that question," Sherlock snapped. _I'm_ _terrified_ _of_ _falling_ _asleep_ _Don't_ _leave_ _me_ _alone_ _I_ _need_ _to_ _talk_ _to_ _you_.

John just smiled. "I'll stay. Give me your hand then."

"Why?"

"Most people find physical contact comforting. Though I'm aware you're not most people."

He sniffed.

"It's as much if not more for me than for you," John admitted. "To know you're real." He dropped his eyes.

So he twitched his good fingers, and John took the hint, wrapping them in his own sturdy hands. It was, surprisingly comforting too. John's touch, so different from Mo— _his_. Warm and rough, compared with damp, limp, and smooth. He shuddered.

"I'll be here when you wake."

"I've spent far too many of the past days in a state of being unaware. I don't want to sleep."

"Fine. I won't stop you. However... I need...I need to..."

He frowned, not quite sure how the next words were supposed to go. "You'd be miserable without me."

"Oh yes," John grinned tiredly. "I tell myself exactly that every time I clean up your dishes and find heads in the fridge and toes in the sugar bowl."

He shook his head fiercely, immediately regretting the action. "That's what I looked forward to—what I concentrated on. To keep aware."

John's eyes went a little wide, mouth twitching as if unsure what expression to go for until everything folded into a comfortable expression of fondness. "Sherlock. Get some rest. I'll be right here. The sooner you're better, the sooner we can go back to England. Back home. Alright?"

"Talk to me," he ordered quietly, shifting his gaze away from John's face. Squirming a little on the hospital bed, he waited while John cleared his throat and gave a soft chuckle. Then John's soothing voice was filling the corners up with thoughts of home. Sherlock, still truly exhausted, let his eyes drift shut to rest. Focusing on John's voice seeping over him like he did in 221B. And it was comfortable. Perhaps, in part, due to the morphine in his veins. Probable due _more_ to the morphine in his veins, but the presence of John Watson went a surprisingly far way in emotional comfort.

* * *

He woke instantly, eyes flashing around to register his surroundings, sighing back into the pillows as he found John's tawny head on the bed next to his hip. Hand still firmly but gently, enclosed in John's.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the smile to come to his lips, the expression feeling almost unnatural. He wouldn't be sleeping again soon, but he could rest and think. Mor— _He_ was not dead. Only angry now. And likely to be all the more persistent.

He twitched lightly as his door opened and the nurse puttered in to check his vitals. 42. Divorced, she has the kids. They're getting into trouble.

He pretended to be asleep.

The nurse left and John turned his head, looking straight at him when he opened his eyes.

"Feigning sleep to avoid the nurses, Sherlock?"

"You were too," he murmured defensively.

John chuckled. "I'm teasing. You want breakfast?"

"I'm no—" Johns face fell leaving him floored. "I'm not sure what is available," he said instead. "No doubt something terrible. Hospital food is atrocious. I will take tea."

Nodding, John stretched up out of his chair, back popping. "Alright. I'll see what I can find."

He watched John go, eyes tracking the movements of the people out in the hallway. John wouldn't be gone long, apparently eager to spend whatever time he could next to Sherlock. Even if that meant sleeping next to him. The thought sent a little tingle down his spine. He frowned.

Then the heart monitor registered his sky rocketing heart-rate as a bland man in a suit walked through the corridor and then out of view.

"Mister Holmes!" A nurse said, rushing in. "Mister Holmes, please calm down!"

"No!" he barked, breath coming quick even as everything _hurt_. "I—"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft appeared around the corner, stride long. His hands reached out, Sherlock shrinking back.

"He's here, fuck, he's _here_!" He gasped, squirming on the hospital bed.

Mycroft checked his phone quickly. "He's not here, Sherlock. Please calm down before you injure yourself further."

Glaring at his brother fiercely, he gripped the sheets with what fingers that worked. Forcing air slowly into his lungs, he closed his eyes and focused on evening his heart so the bloody nurse would stop wringing her hands—habit of years of watching her husband drink. "Get me out of here."

"I won't. Not yet."

"Mycroft..." He opened his eyes. "Get me. The _hell_ out. Of here. I won't stay."

"You are until you are fit for travel."

"I'm not staying here! I can't!" he nearly shrieked, crying out as he jarred something.

"Sit back and stay still, you child!" Mycroft snapped, iron in his voice.

"Hey! What's going on here!" John said just as sharply. His hands were full of two cups of tea and a couple of sandwiches.

"John, I need to get out of here."

"You're hardly well enough for travel," he said quietly, brow furrowing.

He suppressed a scream of frustration. "Fine. End of the week. I'm leaving. I'll be fine for transport back to London. No matter what."

John rolled his eyes. "We'll move you when you're ready. We don't want you any more damaged than you already are. Here. Drink your tea."

Sherlock glowered but held the warm mug carefully and sipped it slowly, warming him inside and out.

The Mo—the doppelgänger of _him_ appeared again two days later, John jumping to his feet in alarm as Sherlock's heart rate ratcheted up again, and he made a smile whine of panic, pushing himself back into the pillows of the bed. John chased the man down and told Sherlock he'd only been visiting his sick daughter. It was, over all, very embarrassing.

He shouted Mycroft out of the room and then lay back, panting from the effort.

John glared at him. "He's trying to _help_ , you know. He's been worried about you. Try not to shout either. Look at you..."

"We're leaving for London. Immediately. As soon as we can."

"What? Sherlo—"

" _No._ _Arguments_!" he snapped. "I need... I need to be back in London. John... please..." Hating the wheedling quality in his voice.

Sighing, John sat on the edge of the bed, fingers stretching towards his hand on the sheets, but not quite touching.

"I know it's not him," he continued in a small voice as he turned his face away.

"Sherlock..."

He couldn't look. Couldn't see that pitying expression in John's eyes.

"You were tortured for days on end and then crossed a bleeding desert while high and delirious! There's bound to b—"

"No!" he said hoarsely. "Don't finish that."

"Listen! There's bound to be some psychological damage. But you're Sherlock Holmes. And the smartest person I've ever known. You'll be okay. It'll take time—"

"I don't _want_ it to take time!" he spat. "I don't want to _think_ about it! I want nothing more to _do_ with it! I _can't_... I can't have this _weakness_ holding me back!"

Now John's hand covered his. "It just means you're human. It's not something you can delete off of a hard drive."

"I can't..." The tension bled away, however, and he turned his head to look at John. John's familiar face. A kind face. Doting. "You spoke to Harry."

He blinked and then chuckled. "Yes."

"You're...you're not going to speak to her until she's sober."

"Yes. Yes, exactly." John smiled, something in his expression comfortable and reassuring. "We'll go back to London. Let me go find Mycroft."

"Don't bother. He'll be back in just under three minutes," he muttered darkly.

He was, and he and John left the room, no doubt discussing his new neuroses and whether or not they were going to sedate him for the trip back to London.


	7. You're Not 100% in This Room

They put him out. One look at John's face in the civilised London hospital told him they'd thought it a kindness.

"There we are. Back amongst the living!" Lestrade's voice said, that kind of pale imitation of hopeful health that hospital rooms inspired.

Sherlock flinched, John's hand covering his.

"Hullo." John smiled at him. "Lots of people here to see you." _I'm_ _sorry_ said the lines around his eyes.

"Don't—" he croaked, coughed, and tried again. "Nothing better to do?"

"Now, now, dear. We know you just woke up, but we're glad to see you," Mrs. Hudson edged in next to Lestrade who bore the stress on his face. Sally hunched behind him, her face warring between relief and embarrassment. Mycroft had probably just stepped out, his umbrella in the corner indicating his presence.

"Hullo... Mrs. Hudson." The world still lurched strangely as he looked around the room.

She smiled brilliantly. "I've brought some biscuits for when John says you can eat them."

He gave her a weak smile before glaring at the rest of them (save for John). "Go away," he said irritably. "The lot of you."

"See you at home when you're better," their landlady said, unbothered.

Sally edged out after her quickly, her well-wishes never making it past shapes formed with her lips. Lestrade ignored his ill manners ad hesitated by the foot of his bed. "We'll be glad to have you back when you're ready to be on your feet. John approved, you hear me? Full health!"

"Good _bye_ Lestrade," he forced out, then looked at John. "Stop it. I don't... When Mycroft gets back, send him away."

"Sherlock..." John smiled gently. "There's nothing wrong with being laid up for a few days."

He threw John a look.

"Okay. More than a few days. Don't push everyone away, alright?"

"I want you to stay."

Blinking, as was his fashion when he was confronted by something unexpected Sherlock did, John smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'll always stay. Even if you don't want me to."

That wrung a smile out of Sherlock as he settled back in the bed. "Good. Now entertain me."

John rolled his eyes, huffing a laugh. "What did the doctors say about your fingers? Did they tell you if they'd fully recover? You know. So you can...still play?"

"I... haven't asked too many questions."

John nodded.

"Why are you asking, John?"

"I think it'd be...a shame. You play. Well. You're so good." John focused in on him slowly, then gave him a half-sheepish smile. "It's quiet at home."

"How soon will I be discharged?" Sherlock looked down at his hands, suppressing the twinge of memory pain.

John lifted the chart off the back of his bed. "If I were your doctor, I would say five days. But," he continued over Sherlock's noise of strangled frustration, "being your friend and knowing you as I do, you could get out in only three days. They'll want to keep an eye on your skin—infection and all—and that concussion. How's your shoulder?"

"It's fine. It's mostly—it's fine. What happened between you and Mycroft?"

"Sorry?"

"John, you were with my brother for a month and a half. You had to speak sometime. My brother, when not dealing with myself, can be annoyingly chatty when the mood strikes." He had to wonder how many of his secrets were divulged against his express disapproval.

"Well, yeah. I mean. We chatted. So?"

"So Mycroft's _chats_ usually have some sort of nefarious aim behind them."

John chuckled. "You really ought to be less suspicious. He does care for you, you know."

Sherlock sniffed. "As much as he is able."

Sighing, John put his hand over Sherlock's again, chart hooked back on the end of the bed. "For as smart as you are, Sherlock, you have to know that's not true. I know feelings aren't really your area, but he evidence that he cares is all there."

"This rift goes back much further than you would care to know, and it won't be mended by your efforts."

Tilting his head, John gave him a puzzled look. "You do know when people care for you, don't you Sherlock?"

He rolled his eyes. "This is tedious, John. We don't need to discuss it."

"No. I want you to answer my question."

"Yes. Lestrade cares. Sally cares in her own way. Mrs. Hudson cares."

"And Mycroft."

"And my brother," he grit out, feeling a headache advancing behind his temples.

"And me."

"And you most of all," he said, earnest and low and altogether too honestly. "You care too much."

John grinned. "Someone's got to do it."

His lips quirked without his say-so as he shook his head. "Do it in my stead, then. Just don't let it get in my way."

"Heaven forbid."

He huffed a small laugh and reached across to pat his free hand on top of John's.

"Play for me when you can?"

The amusement died away as he looked at John. This was important. "I'll need to stretch my limbs to play anyway. I'll need you around in case something doesn't move like it should." John's wide smile was worth it.

* * *

The first time he saw a Mor—a lookalike at the hospital, he seized up and it took a hour and a half of John talking and two fights with Mycroft to calm him down.

"He's still alive and he's doing it on purpose," Sherlock raged.

"Of _course_ he is!" Mycroft snapped. "And you're more the fool for letting him."

"If your _security_ was worth any—"

"Enough! This isn't helping!" John interrupted, voice thin.

"Get me out of here."

"Sherlock..."

"You'd be an idiot to leave so early," Mycroft said coldly.

"Then make sure your _men_ keep these _people_ away from my room!" he shrieked.

"Sherlock. _Calm_. _Down_. Or else I'll tell them to sedate you. Mycroft, _stop_ baiting your brother."

Allowing himself a strangled shout, he fell back into the pillows. "I'm _bored_."

Things were silent save for John's sigh and the machines monitoring Sherlock.

"Rest one more day, and then I'll bring you something to do," Mycroft said quietly.

"I want to go home," he said again, glaring to cover his unease.

"Soon," his brother and flatmate said quietly.

* * *

He saw lookalikes at uneven intervals, but he tried to quiet his panic, digging fingers into his thighs. And he never slept. John didn't notice at first.

But when he had to be prompted for a response five times in a half hour, John waved a hand in front of his face, making him jump. "How much sleep have you gotten? You look like you're falling asleep where you sit."

"I've slept."

"Liar."

He blinked, focusing in on John's disapproving face. "How did you know."

John's expression changed again to that exasperated sort of fondness. "Well you just confirmed it, for one."

He felt his face heat at the rookie mistake.

"And I know you. When something's bothering you, you don't sleep. You're bothered by Moriarty's—"

He flinched. Grit his teeth.

"—games. You get nightmares. So you'd avoid it. And trust me. If there's something I can understand, Sherlock, it's nightmares." John dropped his gaze. "And the shame from them."

"Stop it," he whispered hoarsely.

"You need sleep. Otherwise you'll just go crazier, and I don't need a flatmate who's more nutters than he already is." He offered him a lopsided grin. "I'll stay."

"John..." He trailed off, unsure where his mouth was going in its current state.

"Sleep." John perched on the side of his bed, hip to hip. "Budge over."

Tiredness washing over him, Sherlock moved his weak body towards the opposite rail, John's solid shoulder against his thin one. He nestled his head back in the pillows, sleep rising swiftly to drag him down, John's warmth a tether to sanity.

He still woke shaking, John's hands stroking his hair. John's arm around his waist. John's leg against his leg. John's voice whispering quiet things to soothe him. He fell back asleep quickly to some dream where he was old with John and things were quiet save for the buzzing of bees.

* * *

John coerced him into a wheelchair to bring him out of the car, Mycroft watching woodenly while John helped him into the car.

"Finally," he sighed as he shut his eyes and relaxed into the leather. Everyone was blessedly quiet until they arrived at 221 Baker Street. John shared a look with his brother ad then helped Sherlock to his feet, arm around his waist, fingers spread in a way that reminded him vaguely of one of the dreams he'd had.

"You okay?" John asked quietly.

"Your concern is touching, John," he replied acerbically, legs stalling at the sight of the familiar navy door. Now that he was here, he wasn't so sure he wanted to be.

"Would you like some tea?"

Grunting in reply, he forced his feet over the threshold. It was almost like a stone off his chest as he made his way up the stairs with John's help, Mycroft at his back. Would he catch him if he fell? Make the physical commitment of support? How tempting to just...tip, and gravity...

"Whoa! Easy," John said, pulling him tighter.

Unforseen side-effect.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out. "Oh, Sherlock! You're home! I'm so glad to see you out of that bed!"

Home. Implying belonging and safety. Belonging, yes. Safety? Compromised. "Hullo, Mrs. Hudson," he replied finally. "Good to be back."

John smiled, pulling him up the stairs.

"Sherlock, move your feet," Mycroft said.

He waited until he had been propped against the wall before tipping towards Mycroft.

"Jesus! Sherlock!" John lunged for him from across the room.

But Mycroft's hand flew up and pushed on his shoulder before throwing him a pained look. Not enough pressure if he were really falling. But then again Mycroft knew that. But still. He smiled. "I'm fine." Interesting.

"You're an idiot," Mycroft muttered, finishing John's job of pushing things off the couch.

Swinging an arm under Sherlock's shoulders, John supported him to the sofa, and just as he eased him down, Mrs. Hudson bustled in with tea. "For celebration," she smiled.

"What was that about?" John asked, brow creased again.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb."

"Experiment," he muttered.

John looked at him in wonderment, snorted once, and then burst out laughing.

Sherlock creased his brow, chuckling once then degenerating into soft giggles as well. He slumped into the cushions, laughing through the wheeze of pain as he jarred something.

"Should you need anything," Mycroft interrupted, "don't hesitate to call. That does not, however, entitle you to a carte blanche to call whenever. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for the tea. I shall be off." He paused at the threshold. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Mycroft." John was up and to the door, flushing faintly, murmuring as Sherlock closed his eyes, tiredness sweeping through him.

* * *

He screamed silently, in rictus, waiting until consciousness caught up with him so he could slowly unlock his joints and muscles. The flat was dark and the blanket John must have thrown over him had tangled around his limbs. Most likely prompting the nightmare. Not that his mind needed an excuse. He grit his teeth feeling more exhausted than he had when he'd apparently fallen asleep.

John was flopped into one of the big chairs. Reaching around on the coffee table, he found John's mobile and dialled quickly. "Give me something to work on," he demanded with more pleading tones than he would have liked. Not that Lestrade would notice in his current sleep-addled state.

"Jo—"

"Sherlock. Old cases, cold cases, unsolved rabble. I don't care. Give. Me. Something. To set my mind to."

"Sherlock," the other man breathed tiredly. "You bastard. Just because you can't sleep doesn't mean you have to interrupt mine." He paused. "Sorry. That was—I'll send over some files tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," he said lowly, eyes closed.

"Um. Yeah. You're welcome... Um. Get yourself well, okay?"

"Goodnight, Lestrade." He run off and dropped the mobile on the floor.

* * *

A great big box of files arrived early the next morning alongside a box of corresponding evidence. John frowned as Sherlock wrestled the box open and collapsed back onto the sofa with a groan.

"Or ask for help. Did you sleep last night?"

"Some." He opened the files, sorting them least to most interesting, the least to be taken care of while he was still on pain relievers.

John sighed. "Tea?"

"Yes. And hand me my laptop."

"You must be the most stubborn man alive. Here."

"I'm sure I've loads of emails to read about people and their cheating spouses." He could almost sense John's frown it was so potent, leaving Sherlock with an unaccustomed feeling of relief when he vanished into the kitchen. Perusing his emails, they were exactly as he thought until he almost dropped the bloody machine as he shouted. John swore from the kitchen and was at his side in seconds.

"What is it?" He grabbed the precariously balanced laptop ad pushed the lid back. "Fuck." His entire body suddenly _thrummed_ with emotion next to his, everything tense. "That unforgiveable—Sherlock."

John's hands on his shoulders, one tipping his chin away from the screen and the photo of himself lying on a metal table, scratched, bruised, and looking like a corpse.

" _Sher_ lock." John cupped his face.

"Fuck," he said lowly, choking the word out as he snatched back his laptop and pressed 'delete' and then emptied the rubbish for the photo to be lost in the cyberspace of never-to-be-seen-again.

John eased himself down next to Sherlock's hips, glancing at him and then dropping his eyes. "I'm loathe to even... I know you _won't_ but I can't help giving my opinion. You should talk to someone."

Sherlock snorted and managed to make his voice sound even. "Did it help you any?"

John's only response was a sigh.

"That's what I thought."

"Don't be petty, Sherlock. I don't... You can talk to _me_ ," he said gently. "Of all people, I probably get it the best."

Choosing to roll into the back of the sofa, he winced as that jarred his ribs and scowled as he rolled back.

"Yeah, yeah. You don't want to talk about it. I understand."

"You, of all people, _are_ probably the closest to fully understanding, John, but you will never understand. We react to things differently."

"Not so differently."

Remembering their runs across roof tops and down alleys, he nodded once. "I'm not talking about it."

"Okay. Let me get your tea. Hungry?"

"No."

"You—"

"Need to eat, so I'll have...whatever." He waved his hand and then rested his hands over his stomach.

* * *

John went up to his own bed at 11:97 after helping Sherlock into his room. He didn't say anything while pulling the covers up, but hesitated at the door before finally saying, "Text me if you need anything. I mean it. My mobile will be nearby. Yours is on your bedside table. Okay? I mean it. Anything."

"Anything you can give..."

John took it as an affirmative and then switched the light off, leaving the door open.

"Good night, Sherlock."

So he stared at his ceiling, mind whirring away, ricocheting off thoughts of _him_. The crack that started near the edge of the tub in the bathroom upstairs had grown longer and now forked into a serpentine-like tongue. The lights from the shop next door threw flickering red hues up on the ceiling. Cars passed inconsistently. Taxi. Taxi. Smart car. Taxi. Lorry. All in the period of an hour and fifteen minutes. Also three different dogs barking, a cat fighting with another animal (check for tracks and fur tomorrow—weak on feet. Make John take photos), a couple laughing as they headed home from a (successful) date, and a man having an argument on his mobile. 1:22. John didn't move upstairs.

He grit his teeth against the sudden inpouring of realised information. John hadn't slept well since Sherlock had been...taken. The loss of weight and dark circles evidence to a decrease in self-awareness and self-care. His attention and effort had been focused solely on Sherlock. A high level of attachment eclipsing all other relationships (save for the one of mutual benefit with Mycroft in searching for him) implying a level of emotional attachment previously unrealised. It was more than a need for excitement. John's hand and gait were steady, indicating a constant belief that Sherlock would be retrieved—not a suspense of fact that might lead to dejection and a mental preparation for grief. John didn't see failure as an option. And with Mycroft's help, there was a good chance it wouldn't be. But it was more than that.

John. Confident of recovery. John. Hand -holding John. Worried but hiding it well. Wanting to help. Understanding space. Privacy. John. Giving him time to figure things out. Peace. Patience. John. Petting his hair when he thought Sherlock was asleep.

Sherlock pretending to stay asleep so John would continue petting his hair.

Jaw clenched.

 _Him_ doing the exact same until... tearing out chunks, grinning and—John. Staying close—being... comfort. Reliable.

A small choked noise escaped from between his lips as _everything_ flooded to the front of his mind and tears burned his eyes before sliding along his cheeks into his hair and the pillowcase. No matter how much strength of presence John provided, he was upstairs, and Sherlock was here feeling small and damaged and scared like he hadn't since he was four and Mycroft convinced him that reason died in your mind if you used it too much like Sherlock did. There was a quota for everyone. So there was one week of his life where he'd behaved like a normal person until evidence that Mycroft was 'pulling his leg' became overwhelming and he went right back to himself.

He gasped into the darkness and tried to make himself stop thinking, the familiar twitch of his fingers for his Strad made infinitely worse by the fact that he couldn't play it with broken fingers, cracked ribs, shoulder. "Fuck." The sound surprised him as it rasped through his room, barely above a whisper.

2:16.

His mobile was close enough that he could stretch out his good arm and grab it. Text John.

And tell him what.

Morning couldn't come swiftly enough.

* * *

John helped him up and to the loo, supporting most of his weight. "Jesus. Did you sleep at all?"

"Couldn't," he muttered flatly.

"Sherlock! You—" John cut himself off, helping him into fresh clothes and then to the sofa. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Whatever you're making is fine."

John looked at him sharply and then vanished into the kitchen.

By the time he was awake, the toast was cold and his tea no longer even steaming. When he stirred, John looked up from his position at Sherlock's feet. "There you are."

"I fell asleep."

"Well, that tends to happen when you're knackered."

Sherlock frowned. Reached for the toast. John got up and took his tea back into the kitchen to reheat.

So the pattern began. Sleep while John was in the room, work on the cases Lestrade brought all night to avoid the nightmares and keep himself busy.

Until he accidentally fell asleep in his room one night and he woke to a horrid shrieking and John's hands on his biceps.

"Sherlock! Wake up!"

The sound stopped when he gasped and fell, limp, into the tangled sheets. He picked out the signs of concern on John's face.

"Jesus, are you alright."

"Of course I'm not fucking alright!" he snapped and then covered his face with his arms. So he couldn't see... Pity. Irritation.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Go back to bed, John," he whispered.

"Do you want me to stay? A bed's a bed. I can sleep almost anywhere. You always seem to sleep easier when I'm in the room."

Sherlock frowned at him, hair askew, t-shirt rumbled. It was true that he slept when it was morning. Was John part of that equation? John... "Fine. Stay." This obviously bore a closer looking-at.

John moved the papers and Sherlock's laptop, settling in, like a sentry, against the headboard on top of the duvet. He smiled at Sherlock and patted his hand. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

When he woke the next morning, John was gone, though the bed was still warm.

Interesting.

When John was close, he could sleep, uninterrupted and without nightmares. So John was...safe? This would need more testing. So he called John back for the next for nights in a row, sleeping the night through—until John woke in the morning to make tea and breakfast.

John was safe.

The fifth night, John had an evening shift at the clinic, so he helped Sherlock to his bed, setting him up with the case files, seven down, twenty three to go. Despite his determination to not fall asleep, Sherlock could feel the pull of his eyelids and the warm heaviness of his limbs. So he pushed off the sheets and twisted until his ribs twinged. Only, it seems, to stave off the inevitable.

Warm arms pulled him close as he woke thrashing and whimpering, the steady stream of noise from John's mouth cleaning and solidifying into words. "It's alright, love, I've got you—shh shh, just relax. I've got you. Calm down."

"John," he choked, stiffening.

John's warm hand carded through his hair. "I'm here. I'm sorry I left you—Sherlock?" He pulled his hand away and then touched his cheek, obviously feeling the damness of tears. "Hey! Hey, it's alright! Easy, love, I won't do it again. It's fine."

He sobbed once. "Fuck. That's not... _fuck_." He let John rock him gently, gathering himself. "That's not... That's only part... _Dammit!_ _I'm_ _fucking_ scared of _everything_!" He finally blurted, slamming a fist on the sheets.

"Easy! Easy. It's fine. Sherlock, that was a traumatising event! You've no reason to feel ashamed!"

"Is that what your therapist told you?" he muttered bitterly.

John didn't say anything, just rubbed his arm gently.

"You called me 'love,'" he said in a small voice.

"Did I?" John's hand paused and he stopped rocking. "I don't really know what I was sa—"

"I don't... I don't know what love is, John."

Sighing and resuming rocking, he scooted back against the headboard and pulled Sherlock up against his side, head on John's thighs. "You're fine. Just sleep."

Morning found John curled around Sherlock's shoulders and torso, Sherlock blinking into the muted light from the window. He sighed, already regretting the events of the previous night, hating his weakness when John wasn't around. But he didn't move, John's breath warm against the middle of his back. Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. This weakness was absurd. And he shouldn't rely on John with this sort of consistency.

John shifted. "Good morning..."

"Yes."

Sitting and smoothing his hair, John stretched and yawned. "Raining..."

"Yes."

"Do you feel up to a shower? Sherlock?"

"Do you love me, John?" He tilted his head to see his flat-mate cum security blanket's face.

John sighed. "I...feel more strongly about your health and safety than anyone I have in the past. I enjoy your company for all your inanities, psychoses, and bad and annoying habits. Whether you realise it or not, you sort of gave me my life back."

"So you're confusing gratitude with love."

"I don't know yet."

Sherlock frowned.

John shrugged. "Breakfast?" He swung his feet over the side of the bed.

"This is something that would usually bother you. Why are you not bothered by this, John?"

"So... No breakfast yet?"

" _John_."

"Sherlock," he returned tiredly. "You don't want to talk about this, and neither do I. I need to think about this. Come on. Let's get you a shower."

After a moment of reading John's self-conscious, tense shoulders, furrowed brow, and flushed cheeks, he sighed. "Fine. Get me up." He did his best to help John get him out of the bed, and then limped alongside him towards the bathroom. To have John help him out of his t-shirt while the water heated. And then tug his flannels off and set the stool in the shower.

"This is awkward in light of our almost conversation..." John muttered.

"How so?" He sat slowly, reaching for the soap.

"Never mind. Want me to soap your hair?"

"You like my hair."

"Beg your pardon?"

"You like petting it." He smiled as John blushed.

"Um. Yes. I suppose I do."

"John. Soap my hair."

"Of course," he laughed.

By the time he was clean and dressed and on the sofa, Sherlock was tired again.

"Here's tea and a muffin."

"Thank you."

John gave him another smile and memories of a dream he'd had flashed through his mind. Did he like making John smile? Was that love? He shuddered at the thought of someone else's expression of 'love.' But John's smiling was good. Smiling was an expression of joy or pleasure. "Get me my laptop." And, as usual, John walked back to Sherlock's room to fetch it. No hesitation, however, where there previously had been, as he walked through Sherlock's door. "Thank you."

"Twice in one day? Is something wrong?" John teased, easing himself into a chair and picking up yesterday's paper.

"You're not taking any more days off because of me, are you, John?"

"What? I was thinking about it."

"Don't."

"You need someone to help you."

"I'm fine. Just don't take any night shifts. I can easily manage."

Looking over the top fold of the newspaper, John frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Don't make me repeat myself..." Email from Mycroft. Inquiring after his _health_ of all things. Though without him able to see for himself on the CCTV cameras, he really had no way of knowing. Unless he was comparing John's answers to his own. Now that John and Mycroft had a rapport that didn't involve kidnappings and mutual irritation. He would undoubtedly report back to Mycroft on Sherlock's health accurately. Considering he was the one common factor that the two had in common in their lives. And, as he'd learned, _both_ cared for him more than he'd been aware.

"Alright," John shrugged. "I'll be out tomorrow then."

Sherlock nodded and then turned his attention back to his computer.


	8. We Don't Know How to Be Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been writing the last chapter, and, in the process, realised that I couldn't end it in the chapter after this, unless I wanted a beast of a chapter, so I broke it off into an epilogue. This thing really has gotten a bit out of control... :) I'm enjoying writing it, and I've loved writing it, and I'm also glad that it's almost done so I can move on to other partially-sketched out stories. So. One more chapter, folks, and then an epilogue!
> 
> I just wanted to say thanks for all of your comments, and I hope I don't disappoint. Thanks for reading and all of your encouragement!

John got home from the clinic, still out of answers. Despite the fact that his heart swelled at the sight of his flat-mate scowling over his papers.

"Good, you're back."

The haunted look had somewhat left his face with him having work to keep him busy and John sleeping beside him during the night to chase away the nightmares. _Sensitive_ _child_.

"If a person's ribs puncture the lungs, how long would it take for a person—male, approximately fifteen stone, to drown in his own blood?"

"Hello to you too." He set the Tesco bags on the counter and put the milk in the fridge. Which, since Sherlock seemed to have no stomach for them currently, was blessedly empty of experiments. In fact, most of the experiments were gone from the counters and tables. John was going to give it maybe six months and if they didn't reappear... Then he would be worried. Not before. He ate. He slept. He hadn't been outside since being brought home, but Lestrade and Mycroft had both visited, Lestrade taking the solved files with him. And he was still healing.

Sherlock's skin was mostly pink from healing, making it hard to keep his ribs taped. His nails were probably painful and itchy as they grew in. And he was mottled black, blue, yellow, and green all over as welts healed. His mind seemed fine—for which John was grateful. He would have had no quarter for Moriarty had Sherlock been permanently damaged. He wanted to rip him apart as it was. He shoved the fierce anger back down. Sherlock's shoulder was mostly fine, his fingers and foot splinted and cast. Healing. His wrist was coming along nicely as well as all of his burns.

"John?"

He blinked. "Yes. Tea?"

"Of course. How long?"

He sighed. "Not very long, depending on the damage." Sherlock's voice followed him into the kitchen as he put the kettle on.

"So it is highly unlikely that a man with a punctured lung would be able to drag himself up to his flat four blocks from the park where he was killed."

"No, no. Quite impossible." When he returned with the tea, Sherlock was shooting off an email to Lestrade, having forgone his mobile because a quarter of his fingers didn't work anyway. "What number is that?"

"This will be the fifteenth cold case I've solved. Last of the middle-difficulty ones. The rest are more vague in their level of knowledge and detail. If you ask how I'm feeling one more _time_ , John, I will regrettably have to punch you."

John snorted. "With what fist?" Pleased by Sherlock's scowl, he chuckled. "Sorry, I just want to check up and make sure everything is fine."

"Of course it's fine." Sherlock stared at him a moment and then dropped his eyes. "I would tell you. You are...important to me. You know."

That might be called blushing. He tried to fight the grin that threatened to burst forth. Oh he did love Sherlock, that mad insufferable man. He couldn't tell him yet though. He wasn't ready to hear it. He felt his mobile buzz in his pocket. Mycroft. His alerts were all set to vibrate so Sherlock wouldn't know. Hopefully, because one wasn't sure _what_ Sherlock knew. "Alright then. Tell me when you need something. I need to get groceries. I'll not be gone long. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded absently, though he was tense. Not comfortable being alone. John remembered the feeling.

So he threw on his coat and hurried through his mental list, smiling absently at the checker girl since her lane was empty. By the time he'd returned to Baker Street, he was nervous, the feeling only abating when he opened the door to their flat and saw him stretched out on the sofa.

"I'm not going anywhere, John," he said lowly.

John flashed him a sheepish smile, but now some relief echoed in his eyes. "Of course not. Are you tired?" He regretting asking the question as soon as it left his mouth, Sherlock's face darkening. "You need to sleep," he tried instead. "I'll stay with you." Smiled as he passed him and dropped the groceries in the kitchen.

"No need to coddle me, John."

"Am I the type to coddle a person?"

"John," Sherlock drawled, flopping an arm over his face, "you are _exactly_ the type to coddle a person."

"You need help?" He met Sherlock's arched glare. "Right. Tea?"

"No. I'm tired." He swung his feet to the floor, reaching for the cane he'd adopted from John to stand.

John shook his head and smiled fondly when Sherlock wobbled, going over and wrapping an arm around his waist. "Come on then, you idiot. Let's get you to bed."

"Coddler," Sherlock muttered, permitting the help as he looped his good arm around John's shoulders as they limped towards Sherlock's room.

"Limpet."

"Limpet?" he exclaimed tiredly. Then, "Nanny."

"Layabout."

"Nurse."

"Doctor, actually," John said with a grin, poking the man in the hip. "But close enough." He eased Sherlock's head onto the pillow as he laid him down. "Lift your... there you go." Pulled the covers up over him, and then slipped into the other side of the bed. "Let me know if you need anything, as usual, Sherlock."

"Of course, Mother."

John shuddered. "I _don't_ want to be your mother." Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Good night, Sherlock."

* * *

Four months of waking when Sherlock did from his nightmares, soothing him, making him tea while he healed and lazed about the flat bemoaning his boredom, John woke to the familiar shaking in his arms. He gave a mental sigh. It'd been three days without nightmares and Sherlock had been in higher spirits, Lestrade letting him in on a live case. "Sherlock," he mumbled next to the man's ear. The shaking continued. "Sherlock. You're dream—Sherlock?" John's breath caught when Sherlock sobbed instead of screamed. He leaned up on his elbows, gripping his arm gently. "Wake up..."

"I'm awake."

"Jesus... Are you okay?" Sherlock was silent so long, John opened his mouth to ask again.

"No. Just... Leave me be, John."

"Can I—"

"No!" And then elbowed John's arm off his waist. "Why are you here, John?" he asked harshly, scooting away.

"Sherlock... it's..." He looked over at the glowing green numbers. "It's half three. Go back to sleep. Surely this can wait until morning."

"You sleep in my bed, John. Arms around me like a love," he said flatly.

"Morning, Sherlock," he repeated firmly, _really_ not wanting to have this conversation while he was half asleep.

"I _can't_! I can't wait until morning! I can't sleep without nightmares, John! I can't _rest_. Sleeping gives me hardly any peace. You staying here is like putting a plaster on a gut wound. I'm bleeding internally, externally, and I'm broken and _fuck_ I can't do it anymore! I'm _useless_! I—I'm no good," he trailed off, voice little more than a whine.

 _Sensitive_ _child_.

Keeping his groan to himself, John quickly reached over and flicked on the light. _Sensitive_ _child_. "Fine. We'll do this now. Because I don't want you getting wrong ideas into your head," he said, looking down at Sherlock's sullen but tear-stained face. He sighed. "See, this is one of those times where you wake me before your shaking does..."

"Whatever happened to heteronormative, _John_." Sherlock sneered.

"I _said_ I'm here when you need me. I meant it. Now you're not useless. And you're not broken. And there's nothing wrong with you. All of these feelings are normal and even expected."

"You're a psychiatrist now?"

"No," he said evenly. "But whatever you don't want to admit, the events were traumatic. I would be worried if you were perfectly okay with everythi—Oh God. He didn't—" John's mind froze.

"Jesu— _No_. He. God." Sherlock spat. "Nothing sexual. He doesn't see that, for all his perverse jokes." Sherlock's cheeks pinked, brows dipping down. "He just wants to possess me."

"Because _that's_ not creepy and perverse..."

"John," Sherlock admonished, voice stronger. "He wants everything I am, all of my attention, all of my pain, my focus, my...dependence."

"Again. Creepy bugger."

"Yes," he agreed wryly.

"He deserves—"

"Everything you can think of and more, John, yes. I know."

John watched Sherlock's profile, settled now on his elbow again. "You're okay, you know. You've got me. And I won't leave. I promise," he said, slowly, as if the words might scare him away.

Sherlock snorted. "It's not worth your effort to serve me devotedly now."

He grit his teeth and rolled onto his back. "Then I guess all those months and week of searching were a waste of my time?" he snapped.

"I guess it was..." Sherlock said, voice strained, after a moment's pause.

"God, Sherlock! You know..." _Sensitive_ _child_... "I didn't mean that. You know I didn't. You're making it difficult. I just... I'm trying to help, you know. You _do_ know that, right? Sherlock?"

"Shut up."

John sighed and turned the light off. "Come on, luv. Go back to sleep. Maybe there'll be a murder in the morning." Sherlock jerked under John's hand. "What-" Then sucked in air through his teeth as he realised what he'd said. The sheets rustled as his flatmate turned over. "Not now," he said quickly, desperately.

"You love me?"

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Answer me, John. Answer me right now."

" _Yes_ , alright! I love you, Sherlock. I do. God help me, I do. Happy?" He sighed and scrubbed at his face, waiting for Sherlock's let down. "Go on then!"

"I don't... I don't know what love is, John" the baritone was soft, vulnerable. Young.

"Oh Sherlock..."

"Don't _pity_ me."

"I'm not. It's not— _geeze_. _Sher_ lock."

"You say my name like I'm supposed to know what you _mean_!"

"How do you feel about me? You... You haven't turned me down," John said slowly, some of the dread unknitting.

"I don't want... I want you to stay." He sighed gustily "I don't know _how_ , John. I just..."

"You don't want me to leave."

"That's what I _said_!"

"What else? Do you _like_ me?"

"I..."

"You like spending time with me. You find it pleasant to have me around?"

"Yes..."

"That's good enough for me for now. Now. Can we sleep?"

"I need to understa—"

"We'll talk in the morning," John said quickly, grateful and hopeful all at once, wanting to sleep with the memory of the feeling.

"Fine."

* * *

John woke to Sherlock's back warm against his side, arms and legs outstretched like he was falling.

"Good morning, John."

"Good morning, Sherlock. Could you get off my arm, please? It's a bit numb."

"Yes, of course." Sherlock shifted and his arm prickled with the return of blood-flow.

"Loo first, then talking." John escaped, made his way to the kitchen ad returned to Sherlock curled on the bed, looking small. _Sensitive_ _child_. "Here, Sherlock. Tea."

"I like it when you bring me tea. I like it when you say clever things, proving you're not an idiot."

"Thanks?"

"I like knowing you're at my back with your gun," he continued, rolling to stare at the ceiling, brow furrowed. "I like that you're a doctor ad know information to fill in the gaps of mine. I like that you stay the same. You're always John Watson. Reliable. Constant. I like..." His voice dropped low and John had to sit on the bed next to him to hear. "I only... I know you would look," he said suddenly, desperate, grabbing John's t-shirt with his good fingers. "I knew you w-wouldn't stop. _Fuck_." Covered his face, straining to keep his voice level. Calm.

 _SensitiveSensitiveSensitive_.

"Sherlock! _Sher_ lock. It's okay." John resorted to soothing noises, gripping his shoulders lightly.

"John, it's _not_. You don't understand! You were what kept me from giving up completely. That you were looking. That you didn't know where I _was_! That... that was my whole world. When he—when _Mor_ _—_ _he_ _—_ _fuck_ _—_ _I_ can't even say his _name_! That's what he's done to me! Mor—mor...ie...ar-ar—ach..." His mouth snapped shut, choking off the noise with a full-bodied shudder.

"Say it."

"I _can't_!" His face was red with the effort.

"Say. It. Moriarty."

Sherlock flinched. "I can't."

"Moriarty."

"Stop."

"Moriarty."

" _Stop_."

"Moriarty!"

"Stop it!" Sherlock pleaded, covering his ears.

"Sherlock," John said firmly. "I want you to _say_ _it_."

"No!" He shrieked.

"Say it!" he barked. "Moriarty!"

"Fuck Moriarty!" Sherlock shrieked wildly.

John grinned. "Again."

Sherlock sucked in air. "Moriarty," he said quietly, still flinching.

"Again."

"Moriarty."

"Again until you no longer flinch. I'll start breakfast." John rose and started eggs on the stove. He was just heaping them on plates when Sherlock shuffled in, waited until John met his eyes.

"Moriarty." And didn't flinch.

John gave him a nod and then offered him a plate.

"Thank you, John." He dropped his gaze and took the plate. "You've done what I once did for you."

He smiled, fondness taking up all the space in his chest. "One good turn deserves another."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Idioms are for idiots, John."

His grin broadening, he took his own plate and sat at the kitchen table. "Glad you feel better."

"What makes you believe I'm 'feeling better,'" he scowled, but joined him.

"You're insulting me. You must be feeling better. Eat."

"Do you make me eat because you love you."

John blinked. "Well. Because I _care_ for you certainly. I want you healthy and in good form."

"Why do you love me, John?" He fiddled with his fork.

"It's hard to say..."

"Convenience? You see me every day. Could it not be fondness? You look at me with this one expression quite frequently. Fondness and...something else. Is that love?"

"Love is a _feeling_ , Sherlock. An emotion. It's hard to explain," John said, grasping for something to tell the man. "I love you always, really. Whatever you do. You can do things—like be brilliant at crime scenes—and I'll feel a...a warmth in my heart for you. But then come home to frozen testicles in the teacups and be very unamused. It really all depends. I..." He sighed at Sherlock's narrowed eyes. "It's like the feeling I think you get when you've just been told about a crime Lestrade wants you in on. Or when you've just brilliantly solved one, making the rest of us mere mortals feel incredibly stupid."

"And then you tell me I'm brilliant, and I want to curl around you so you can stare at only me for ever," Sherlock said slowly, meeting John's eyes through his fringe.

Smiling widely, John reached over and took his hand. "Yes, I think so. Is this okay?"

Sherlock looked down at their hands and nodded.

John nodded back once, took a deep breath and leaned across the table to press his lips against his flatmate's and then pull back to search his face. "Is that okay? Do you like that?"

Eyes wide, Sherlock licked his lips. "I...yes. Is that what love feels like?"

"It's different for everyone." John grinned, feeling a little giddy. So he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock again. Making a small noise of surprise when Sherlock grabbed his face and responded ardently to the kiss. John finally had to push him off to breathe. "Jesus!"

Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. "...not good?"

"No..." John swallowed. "Bloody perfect."

"Oh," he breathed, cheeks flushed, hair charmingly mussed, thanks to John's hands. "I like kissing. But if we do any more, I'm going to become quite aroused. And I'm not ready for sexual intercourse."

John echoed Sherlock's breathy 'oh' and sat again, thighs glad for the relief. "So you wouldn't be opposed to the idea."

"I thought my return of affection was demonstration enough of being willing," Sherlock drawled.

"Maybe, but it's always better to have the words said aloud."

Sherlock squinted at him a moment. "John. If I didn't want you to do something, rest assured that you would not be doing it."

"Jesus," John huffed under his breath, cheeks hot. "That's... Right. Okay."

With a small smile, Sherlock returned to his breakfast, picking and spreading, _some_ of it making it to his mouth.

* * *

Four days later, Sherlock faced John in his sleep and didn't shiver, moan, cry, shudder, kick, scream, or wake once. John made him breakfast and received a testing, learning kiss for his troubles.

Two days after that they had a lie-in and went out to lunch, Sherlock's arm brushing his as they walked. When they got back home, John couldn't help pushing Sherlock against the inside of their door and kissing him until he was weak in the knees and breathless.

Always a quick learner, Sherlock returned the favour that evening before John showered, making sure he'd need a wank once behind the curtain.

"I'm glad I've kept you around," Sherlock said, utterly sprawled on the sofa. His lips were kiss-bruised from their snog this morning. "Come with me to the doctor's, John?"

Comfortable in his own chair, John hummed. "Your foot and fingers should be much better by now, skin's looking great, just some remnants of some of the welts."

"Quite."

"And your ribs still need careful handling. Don't think I haven't seen your twinges when you think I'm not looking."

Sherlock chuckled. "They hardly hold me back."

"No running about until they're healed," John admonished. And then chuckled at the stern look of reprimand Sherlock gave him.

* * *

Then Lestrade phoned, completely flummoxed, asking if he might bring over photos of the crime scene. Sherlock snatched the mobile away from John's ear, coolly inquiring if the body had yet been collected. He seemed to wait longer for an answer, eyes fierce in a face that betrayed no emotion. John hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, waiting to see if he'd need to grab his coat and hail a cab. A twinge of guilt at the almost excitement he felt. So he chastised instead. "Just to look. If we go..."

Sherlock rang off and his grin was all John needed to hold out the other man's coat and then sling his own around his shoulders. "Just to look."

Sherlock brushed past him, lips brushing against his cheek. "You needn't worry about me, John. I'm in agreement with you."

John stayed very close at the crime scene anyway, watching for weakness and signs of pain in his movement. He showed none, but allowed the closeness, that, perhaps was more telling. The crime scene _was_ gruesome. Two bodies, slashed up, parts strewn across the room.

"Serrated blade," John murmured.

Sherlock looked at him, gaze appraising. "Very good, John. What else?"

"Yes, yes, how do you know."

Getting caught up in his excitement, John continued. "No signs of forced entry, windows locked, latch undone on the door, so the killer was let in. Our victims are both women, but one doesn't live here—she's still got her shoes—or at least what's rest of her shoes on. The other woman's left hand is... here," he moved towards the bedroom of the flat. "Aha. And she's married." He looked back at Sherlock who was staring at him intensely. "Luggage, so the other woman is visiting. This is a crime of passion..."

"Yes."

"The..." John frowned. "The husband?"

"You're guessing, but very good, John," Sherlock said lowly.

"You do realise you're making eyes at a crime scene," Sally said, walking by with an evidence bag.

Sherlock spun away, looking to Lestrade. "Lovers tiff. Not the first. This is obviously the plateau. The husband was cheating. The wife accused. The sister intervened, he went after her first—most likely championing the wife. The wife saw, so of course she had to be eliminated as well. He has rage issues. Tell your men to be careful. He's likely still got the weapon—a kitchen knife. And..." He turned once in the front hall area. "He's driving."

Lestrade nodded and moved off to make a few calls, mouthing 'thank you' in John and Sherlock's direction.

John lifted a hand to wave, indicating their departure. "Shall we celebrate with dinner?"

"Celebrate what?" Sherlock pushed ahead, trotting down the stairs carefully. "That was quite impressive for you, John."

"Oh?" He grinned wryly. "For me?"

"You've obviously been practising. Or taken the advice of observing while seeing to heart." Sherlock pushed the door to the street open.

John shrugged. "I was just thinking like you. And I saw..." He didn't really know _why_ he'd seen things differently. Perhaps the concentrated company. John grinned. By osmosis when they slept.

"Something amusing?"

John shook his head. "Where would you like to go for dinner?"

"Wherever you like." Sherlock shrugged.

"Indian? Chinese? Italian? Angelo will be glad to see you, I'm sure.. And we won't have to pay..."

"How economical of you, John."

He grinned.

* * *

John was right. Angelo had been glad to see Sherlock, moving in to _hug_ the man before John casually inserted himself into that space. They'd been seated at their usual table, Sherlock scooting his chair so his back wasn't wide open. John didn't mention it. They were gifted with _two_ candles and anything on the menu. He briefly wondered if two implied marriage, snickered once, and then watched Sherlock actually eat.

Sherlock was exhausted by the time they got back to the flat, so John helped him change, a testament to how tired the poor sod really was. And then slipped into the bed next to him, shoulders touching.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said into the dim quietly.

"For what."

Sherlock huffed. "Don't be obtuse."

John allowed a dry chuckle, rolling on his side. "For dinner? For helping you change? For paying for the taxi? For—"

"Stop it. For..." His voice dropped lower. "For...being here. Helping me."

"Of course, Sherlock. That's what friends are for."

"And we're...friends."

"Of course."

"Are we...more than friends?"

"We're sleeping in the same bed," he said dryly.

"And that indicates more than friendship."

John slid the hand across the opposite shoulder, scooting against Sherlock. "Usually."

"Usually?" He could hear the frown in Sherlock's voice. He hadn't shied away from conscious full-body contact. His hand even twitched lightly against John's belly, cool through the cotton.

"You like me?"

"I...Yes?"

John grinned. "Well I like you a whole lot."

"Love?"

"Probably." He half shrugged and nestled his head on Sherlock's pillow.

"But I do—"

"I know. You _do_ know what love is, Sherlock. I'm sure of it. But "like" is good enough for now."

"John, I think...I want to...love you."

He hummed softly. "You can't force it."

"John—"

"It's fine. Come on. You're tired. Get some sleep, yeah? There's no urgency for it."

"But I—"

"It's fine. It's all fine."

"You've said that before, John," Sherlock said tightly.

"And it's fine. Go to sleep," John said softly.

"John—"

"Sherlock! _I'm_ tired. You're over-thinking this. We'll take it as it comes. Now rest." John untensed as Sherlock sighed and shifted.

"Good night, John." And then kissed him softly.

* * *

John woke with lips on his, Sherlock a welcome heaviness on his chest.

"Good morning, John."

"Can you wake me like this every morning?" he mumbled happily.

Sherlock answered with a chuckle. "I can try. Sometimes you wake before I. And—"

"No, no. It's fine. I'd never want to get up." He stretched his arms out, tensing through it before sagging under Sherlock's weight again.

"Oh." Beat. "Can we have sex?"

John was choking. On air. "I'm sorry...?" he wheezed once able.

"I have done some thinking on the matter. And I do love you, John. That is one of your requirements, is it not?"

"Requirements?"

"Yes. Things that will and will not lead to our having sexual intercourse," Sherlock said calmly. "Everyone has factors."

John gaped.

"I know you find me pleasant to look at. You have said you love me. I can now confidently say I reciprocate the...feeling. What else is there?"

"Oh my—Sherlock. I've just woken up...!"

"Yes. And you have a morning erection. This is helpful."

Groaning, John slapped hands over his face. "I..."

Sherlock shifted his head on John's shoulder. "Unless you...don't want to."

"No! I _do_. It's just... _health_! I want you fully healthy before we do anything," John said quickly.

"Anything?"

"Anything," he repeated firmly.

"Have you other requirements?" He sounded almost disappointed.

"Enough time to take you apart."

Sherlock raised his head, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. "John. Don't tease."

Jon laughed. "Sorry. I have work shortly." Sherlock's head thumped back onto his chest, warm breath gusting across his shoulder. "Up then."

"Must you always flaunt my efforts, John," he grumbled.

"Flaunt!" John rolled off the bed. "What makes you think that?"

"Stop treating me like I'm fragile, John."

"Aren't you?" he asked lightly, pulling on a shirt. He looked up at Sherlock when there was no response. The man was propped up on an elbow, staring at him through cold narrowed eyes.

"I'm not, John," Sherlock said sharply. "What do you know."

 _SensistivechildSensitivechildSensi—_ "I'm sorry?"

Tossing his head, Sherlock sat upright and pinned John with his gaze. "What. Do. You. Know." He stood.

John scoffed. "What do—what does—I have no idea what you're talking about."

"What did he _tell_ you!" Sherlock snapped.

He felt light-headed. "I don't know what you—"

"Don't _lie_ to me, John!" he shouted, taking a step forwards.

"Sherlock!" he barked, stalling for time. "I don't—"

" _Tell_ _me_." His eyes were dark now for another reason, expression murderous, his entire body trembling.

"Jesus. Sherlock. Sit down and don't stress yourself. Please!"

" _TELL_ _ME_!" he shrieked again, reaching out to grab John's arms.

"Calm down! Sher—Jesus! I just—alright! Alright!" John heard the hysteria in his voice, nerves clenching his stomach. He took a deep breath. "Sit."

"No! Just tell me!"

"Mycroft! Mycroft! It was Mycroft!" he yelped.

Sherlock's jaw dropped. Then his mouth clacked shut audibly. His face shut down and he stood, silent. Quivering.

"Sher—"

" _HOW_ _DARE_ _HE!_ " he burst out. " _How_ _bloody_ _dare_ _he!_ _He_ _had_ _no_ _right!_ _No_ _RIGHT_!" His voice cracked on the last.

"Sherlock! Calm do—"

"Don't you _tell_ _me_ _to_ _calm_ _down,_ _John_ _Watson_!" He stabbed a finger at John. "You've been _lying_ to me the entire _time_!"

John winced at his shrillness. "Would you just let me _finish_! Before you have a conniption?"

Sherlock paled further, looking completely white. "Fuck," he whimpered and then sank on to the bed, dropping his head between his knees.

Sinking in front of him immediately, John carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "He just... he gave me some of the video he took as a child and—"

" _Fuck_!"

"No! I—it's fine. Come on, Sherlock; it's not a bad thing!"

"Don't _touch_ me!"

John dropped his hands. "He wanted... me to understand..."

"Understand what a _freak_ I am!" he spat.

Recoiling as if punched, John sat back on his heels. "I...you're not... Oh Sherlock. You're..."

"Don't _pity_ me, John."

"Sherlock," he tried again gently. "It's not pity, and I _don't_ think you're a freak. Very much not so. Listen, I don't think any differently abo—"

" _Liar_."

He sighed.

"You're treating me like a child."

"I'm not!" he protested. "You were a sensitive child. And yes, sometimes you still behave like one. But I acted the same _before_ I knew about the...what Mycroft told me." He barely caught the flicker of betrayal that blinked through Sherlock's eyes and then was gone. He growled. "Do you think I"d have searched for you all throughout northern Africa if I didn't _care_? Jesus! Mycroft just..." That hadn't been a good name to mention. "He thought it'd help me understan—shite." He dragged fingers through his hair, avoiding Sherlock's stone gaze. "Any way I say this you're going to be upset. I shouldn't... he _gave_ me the disk, Sherlock. I didn't ask. You were adorable and you play beautiful violin. There. I'm done. I'm not going to apologise. It's not my fault." John turned and left Sherlock's bedroom for his own. Returning downstairs when he was fully dressed, John grabbed his jacket.

"John...?"

He paused, hand on the knob.

"I... you're right. It's not your fault. But I'm upset."

"Why?" John turned.

"Sorry?"

"That would be good. But why are you upset—no don't get stroppy again. Why does this make you angry?"

"You're not a therapist," Sherlock scowled, folding his arms across his chest, shoulders hunched. "Mycroft went behind my back. It wasn't his information to divulge."

"To be fair, it _was_ his video footage. You just happened to be the subject. And," John said quietly, "he's your brother."

"Any other revelatory statements, _John_."

"He cares and worries for you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Seeing as I was growing close to you, he wanted me to be aware of what type of person you are. Well I already know that. But what type of person you _were_."

"It wasn't his business."

"True," John conceded.

"If you'd wanted to know, you could have asked."

"Would you have answered?"

Sherlock dropped his gaze, looking, almost, for lack of a better word, sheepish. "Perhaps not as succinctly."

John smiled. "Yes."

Shifting one foot to the other, Sherlock's scowl lessened and he tossed his head. "Interfering bugger."

"Yes." His smile broadened.

"I...apologise," the other said lowly.

"I'll see you after work," John grabbed his forearm and pulled Sherlock closer, rocking up on his toes to kiss his cheek.

It wrung a small quirk out of his lips. "See you later, John.'

John went to work giddy.


	9. There is Love in Your Body

After the argument, an event with large enough repercussions that he filed it away for later perusal, Sherlock flopped (carefully) onto the sofa to wait for John's return. He finished off the last of his cold cases, emailed Lestrade his findings, and found it in himself to restart an experiment about the effect of chemicals on hair and the corruptibility of DNA. His own had grown quite long, so he snipped some locks off for testing. Protective goggles on, he heard John enter the building and thump up the stairs. Irritated. Long shift. He frowned. This should be something he should attempt to remedy. Dropping his gloves in the rubbish, he pulled two mugs down and put the kettle on.

"Sherlock?" John called after he must not have seen him.

"In here."

John's footsteps got louder until he was filling the doorway. "There you are—are you making tea?"

"I am," he replied evenly, tossing the tea bag wrappers before he turned to John.

"Oh. I didn't— _Sherlock_! What did you do to your _hair_!"

Sherlock frowned. "Oh. Yes. I used some of it. For the experiment. DNA identifiability after the application of chemicals."

John smiled brilliantly.

"What?"

John chuckled. "Well, come on then. Let me fix it. You're all uneven."

The kettle sang and Sherlock moved away to fill their mugs.

"Why are you making tea?"

"You've had a bad day. I thought it might calm you," he said, handing John a mug after dropping two sugars in it. That smile was back on John's face. Soft and too fond.

"Thank you, Sherlock. You've cheered me up considerably. Bring your tea and let's go to the bathroom where I can fix your hair."

* * *

He was an idiot. For several reasons. The first for not seeing John was happier not only because of their increase of emotional intimacy, but also because Sherlock was behaving "more like himself." As soon as he'd started up some of the more harmless experiments he'd previous abandoned, John had been almost gleeful. And he'd missed it. Or mis-attributed it.

The second being he thought Moriarty's emails with their disturbing words and photo attachments would have stopped bothering him with his renewed ability to say the man's name aloud.

The third and final being the fact that he'd left his computer open with the email up and John was going to see as he walked by. He hurried towards it, aiming for nonchalance. Just as he got a hand on the lid, John said his name sharply.

He turned with an arched brow. "Yes, John."

"You haven't—that was an email from Moriarty." John's entire form was tense.

He settled for defensive. "As glad as I am for your burgeoning brilliance, please refrain from making anything of this."

"He's still taunting you," John countered through grit teeth. "And you're lying to me about it."

"You tend to become irrational—"

"Sherlock! _This_ is not irrational! This is concerned. Angry. Angry and concerned!"

He rolled his eyes.

"I assume you've been looking for him."

"Naturally."

"And."

"Nothing!" he groused, pacing. "I've found nothing. The pictures have been uploaded and downloaded so many times from the internet that the camera information has been corrupted and overwritten. Each message comes from a different IP address, bounced around from here to India to California to Japan!"

John folded his arms, the crease between his brows fierce and deep. "There have been rumours of him in Spain. More recently, in Morocco."

His jaw dropped. For only a second. But he was frozen all the same. "You..." He narrowed his eyes. "You've been working with my _brother_."

John gave a curt nod, eyes bright with the promise of violence, as his body fairly thrummed in confirmation.

"You're going to kill him," Sherlock breathed, a little bit in awe.

John nodded once more. "We have unfinished business... And I made him some promises I intend to keep."

Sherlock suppressed the shudder tingling in his spine, latching on to more easily identifiable emotions. "Was this another secret you were going to keep from me?"

"Of course not. I—we, merely wanted to be sure we weren't going to find an empty room when we chased him down." John finally sat in his chair, sighing.

Sherlock watched some of the tension leech away. "So what then? I'm not sure I like all this going behind my back," he said stiffly.

"It's not 'going behind your back,' Sherlock! It's making sure intel is sound before pinning that bloody bastard down!" John threw his hands up. "I don't want to make this a wild goose chase! I want to walk in the door once, watch the smile get wiped off that smug face, and then take him apart!"

He managed not to gape at John's ferocity. Found himself leaning towards John instead. Wanting to touch. Wanting... Wanting? "John..."

His friend shook his head. "There's more that I've said that's not okay..."

"Heard your message," he mumbled, kneeling besides John's chair.

"What?"

"I heard your message." Looked up into John's face.

Grinning wryly, John grasped the hands on the arm of the chair. "Which one?"

"I don't recall very well. But there was something about a bucket," he said quietly, his lips twitching.

John chuckled, cheeks pinking. "Ah. Yes. Right."

"John," Sherlock said, letting his voice rumble lower. "You were trying to be my own personal white knight..."

"What? No. I would never..." He looked sharply at him. "You're...teasing...?" A smile bloomed. "Right?"

Licking his lips, he watched John's eyes flicker there, a rush going through him. John wanted this. As much as he did. You clever thing... John was very good at hiding what he wished to remain hidden. He pushed himself over the arm of the chair to reach John's lips, John's hands coming up to cup the back of his neck and his cheek.

This was... Sherlock leaned into the kiss, watching John as best he could. This was nice. Slow. Different from the kisses that left his legs feeling rubbery and his mind buzzing like the synapses missed, firing into empty space, lighting small fires in his brain tissue. His lips quirked in a half-smile that shifted John's lips against his. Sucking one of John's lips into his mouth, he bit down gently, John's shudder travelling up Sherlock's arms where they rested on John's shoulders.

John finally pulled back with a sigh. Smiled.

"I like this. A lot."

"Good," John huffed. "I should hope so. You started it."

"Can we have sex now?" He felt well enough. And hot under his own skin, hoping that _more_ and _John_ would soon sort that. He was a little charmed to see John flush.

"Not yet."

He scowled.

"Healthy! I'm worried about your ribs! You can't fault me for being concerned, Sherlock." John slid his hand over his back.

Letting out a strained sigh, he pushed away from John and stood, pacing again. "You are exceedingly frustrating."

"A little quid pro quo then?" he said, voice full of amusement. "Oh don't sulk!"

"I'm _not_."

"It's not like I like waiting any more than you!"

"Do you?" Wrong thing to say. He saw that immediately.

John blinked at him before settling into the familiar fond and a little bit dopey expression. "I see."

Frowning, Sherlock suddenly felt small in the face of John's emotion and insight.

He sighed as he rose. "I'm sure about this, Sherlock. You needn't worry about my changing my mind. I'm pretty much committed."

A flush of warmth went through him. "This has gotten a bit off-topic. We were talking about Moriarty."

John's face settled into dim sobriety. "Right."

"He needs to be stopped."

"I obviously agree."

"I'm going with you," he said firmly.

"I don't like it, but I know you'd come anyway."

"You would do the same," Sherlock countered sharply.

John gave him a small smile. "Of course I would."

"And from now you will keep me updated on anything you happen to learn from...my brother?"

"Yes. Yes I will."

* * *

It was another four and a half weeks that passed before intel was solid on Moriarty's location. Sherlock saw it the moment John's brow furrowed at his mobile.

"He found him," John said quietly, moving away from the body Lestrade had called them to see.

"What time is our flight?"

John gave him a look of fond frustrations. "What makes you—"

"Don't be slow. Of course Mycroft arranged for it. Probably had a plane on standby." His nerves hummed, wanting to _go_ and _do_.

"Um... Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice cut into his daydreams of Moriarty's frightened eyes.

"What?" he snapped, jerking.

Lestrade arched a brow. "What did you have on the body?"

"The cousin left after killing her and looks similar to the victim. We need to go." He turned to walk, but John grabbed his arm.

"Sorry, Inspector. The victim's killer fled through the window, down the fire-escape. She's on foot and dressed in the victim's clothes. They're the same size."

"Yes! Now we're going." Sherlock tugged at his arm.

"Calm down," John said easily. "Was that all?" To Lestrade.

He ignored Lestrade's perplexed look and tried to pretend he didn't know his behaviour was childish. " _John_."

"Nooo... That should be good enough. Where are you off to?"

"Home," John said, Sherlock saying, "Holiday" over him. John rolled his eyes.

"Oh! Sorry! If I'd known, I wouldn't have called you in."

"Not a problem!" Sherlock pacified at once before dragging John down to the street to call a taxi. He shoved John into the car and then piled in after, snapping at the driver to take them home. He let his eyes wander as they drove, taking in everything, leg bouncing. John finally sighed and put his hand over Sherlock's knee.

He scowled and was out of the taxi before it had fully stopped. Racing up to their flat, he drug out his suitcase and began tossing essentials in it.

"Sherlock!" John's footsteps approached just as his own mobile went off. He dove for it and opened the message from Mycroft.

 _Plane_ _leaves_ _at_ _1:58._ _Gate_ _6._ _I'll_ _send_ _a_ _car_.

He grinned and dropped it on the bed just as John entered.

"Would you _please_ stop running off..."

"Get packed, John. We're leaving!" He whirled around grabbing pants and socks.

"Alright! Yes, I got the same message. Relax! Are you sure you're alright? To go?"

He stopped to scoff. "Of course! I've been _waiting_ for this." He stared at John a moment longer before gesturing wildly in what might be called flailing had it been on a lesser person. "Go _pack_! Why are you not packing!"

"I've been packed for the last month," John said wryly.

He felt his eyes go wide as he let out a breathy 'oh.'

John chuckled and then pulled him down to kiss him. "Get yourself packed then."

"You have your Browning?"

"Amongst others," John said lightly with a casual shrug.

"John Watson, you are brilliant," he breathed.

John's answering smile was immediate. "You're brilliant too." His reply was soft and maybe said something other than 'you're brilliant.'

He spun away and was finished packing in minutes. When his and John's luggage were lined up at the door, he paced, his path taking him to the window to check for the car.

"Sherlock, you're not going to pace for another twenty minutes. Come sit down," John said, patting the sofa next to him.

"I _can't_ sit now! I nee—"

"Come sit," John ordered, iron in his voice.

Sherlock found himself sitting.

"That's better."

"You are entirely too smug, John," he said quickly, folding his arms.

Chuckling, John leaned forward into his peripheral before pulling Sherlock's head down for a thorough snog.

He lost himself in it. The smell of John, the _taste_ of John, the sound of John's breathing augmented by shut eyes. Hands on his shoulders moving to spread possessively across his shoulder blades. He wasn't surprised when the groan he heard was his. He let John become everything in his senses, just like the man was aiming for, be a perfect distraction. He himself tumbled back and let out a moan into John's mouth as his back hit the cushions. Arms wrapped around John's back, he let the other man cover him carefully, sighing into touches and trading breath until John's mobile went off.

"That was," he said a little breathless, as he sat, "quite the effective distraction, John."

"I know." He grinned and rolled to his feet to grab his jacket.

Sherlock wasn't far behind.

* * *

Mycroft was in the car when they piled in and finally settled a little smirk on him as they made their way to the airport.

"Stop it, Mycroft," he said archly, resettling himself against the plus seat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John's answering smirk. "I hate you both."

The rest of the trip was silent, Mycroft impressively still, John seemingly at ease. He let himself fidget, knowing it wouldn't be unlike him. He pushed over John to get out of the car.

"Okay. Sure. Just climb over me," John groused, moving to the boot to grab their bags whilst Sherlock stalked off towards the check-in kiosk. Mycroft followed him sedately.

"I'll take care of this. Go help your lover with our luggage," his brother said.

Sherlock scowled but shoved his hands into his pockets, recognising sound decision-making for what it was. He returned to John. "Hurry up, John."

"Care to...you know. Help?" John grunted.

Sherlock smirked and slung John's duffel over his shoulder to join up with Mycroft. "We're ready. Can we board?"

"We can."

"Thanks, Mycroft," John said, giving him a smile and then moving towards the gate.

"I never realised the extent of your...friendship...with my brother," Sherlock said to John as he fell in step.

John rolled his eyes, adjusting his grip on Mycroft's luggage. "Jealous, are you?"

"Of what do I have to be jealous?" he said archly. "I know your affections lie with me."

John huffed a laugh as he handed the girl his ticket.

"I also," he murmured, "know what's mine." And then dropped into his seat after boarding.

John gave him a disappearing glare, but his cheeks were flushed, so Sherlock didn't think anything of it. John's seat was considerately next to him, Mycroft up one row and on the opposite side. All first class, of course, under bland aliases.

The flight wasn't too terribly long, but as Sherlock twitched, shifted, fidgeted, and bounced, it seemed interminable.

"Sherlock," John whispered, putting a hand on his thigh. "Relax."

"Bored," he hissed.

Sighing, he opened his eyes and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a sudoku book. "Work on these." He dropped them in Sherlock's lap. "We're almost there."

"Dull," he whined quietly, stretching his legs under the seat in front of him.

John dropped a pen in his lap. "Start from the end. And don't whine like a two year old, Sherlock."

He sniffed, catching the amused look from the elderly woman across the aisle. He scowled and yanked the tray down, scribbling furiously in the sudoku book. Amusement radiated off John who had reclined again, fingers laced in his lap, eyes shut. Triumphantly, he dropped the completed difficult puzzles back in John's lap when the captain announced they were landing. Please fasten your seatbelts.

The Moroccan air, when they exited the airport, was balmy and mild, bringing in the smell of sea and heat. Mycroft quickly lead them to a car, John muttering something about 'more sand' as he carted their luggage.

"Where are w—"

"The hotel," Mycroft interrupted in a patient voice that told him he'd asked a stupid question.

He scowled and settled himself to wait a little longer. It had been a stupid question. They were neither ready nor fully prepared to chase down Moriarty. Yet. He needed his emotions under control and his mind sharp. This was likely a one-shot endeavour. He didn't want Moriarty on the loose any longer. He could ill-afford becoming swept up in the motions and not forget the purpose.

Mycroft was looking at him.

"I'm fine," he said archly, tapping a finger against the outside of his thigh.

When they arrived at the hotel, Mycroft strolled up to the concierge, inquiring after their rooms, frowned, and immediately requested a change.

Sherlock smiled. Clever. Took one of the bags from John, casually leaning against his shoulder.

John rewarded him with the soft, fond smile he'd seen more of these past few weeks.

"Come on," Mycroft said. Tossing a card at Sherlock, he lead the way to the lift. "I've put you in the same room; I'm sure you don't mind. Leave your things and then come to mine. 217."

John gave a short nod. "Do you think he knows we're here?"

"I think it would be wise to assume he does," Mycroft replied lightly. He checked his mobile as the lift dinged and let them out. "We're to move quickly if we wish to succeed, however."

Sherlock pushed the door to their room open, making a quick sweep through it for bugs, despite that being one of the possible reasons for why they'd switched rooms in the first place. Then noticed John staring at the queen-sized bed.

"Your brother can be very not subtle sometimes."

Sherlock laughed. "Quite. Though he has known we've been sharing a bed for some time."

Sighing, John dropped the bags. "Alright then. Let's get planning."

* * *

At the end of two and a half hours, Mycroft's suit jacket was thrown over the back of a chair, Sherlock had laid himself on the arm chair flat with his legs hooked up over the back, arms flopped down to the floor, and John was massaging his temples, laid out on the sofa.

"Tedious!" Sherlock groaned dramatically.

"Yes, Sherlock. We know," Mycroft fairly snapped.

"Sherlock! Stop agitating your brother."

He sighed and let his legs fall over his head, neatly rolling to his feet. A quick glance at John told him he was suitably impressed. Mycroft, was not. "I want to eat."

"Great idea. Let's go out," John said, jumping on it.

"We'll order in," Mycroft said.

Sherlock groaned.

"Stop whining, Sherlock. Go next door and snog John if it will make you more agreeable!" he did snap.

John choked. And flushed bright red when Sherlock looked at him eagerly, rising off the sofa to pace. "Wha—no! We're— _no_."

He slumped, throwing himself onto Mycroft's bed.

"I'm calling room service. Find some way to be a human being by the time it arrives." His brother glared at him, organising the papers, maps, and photos on the coffee table.

"Don't order too many desserts," he snapped back.

"Sherlock—" John warned.

Mycroft stood and took his mobile into the loo to phone downstairs.

"Sherlock, _please_ stop antagonising your brother."

"Don't patronise me, John. Come here," he said calmly.

"No! You're being ridiculous and hampering progress. I'm not going to—Sherlock... What are you doing?" He backed away as Sherlock rolled off the bed and stalked towards him. "I'm not going to play your ga— _ames._ Sherlock," he trailed off a little breathlessly, back against the wall.

Sherlock tilted John's chin up, flush with pleasure as John let out a quiet groan, and then pressed his lips to John's. He felt, more than heard John whisper his name into his mouth. Crowding close, Sherlock let everything else fall away, immersing himself in John. John's lips. Thoughts of John, smell of John, _feel_ of John.

By the time John pulled back, John was panting and Sherlock felt faint. "Much better," he purred.

John scowled but then grabbed Sherlock's collar and kissed him fiercely. He fell back against the wall when Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Room service is on its way."

"Thank you, Mycroft," John said.

Wandering to the sofa John had previously vacated, Sherlock flopped down with a feeling of smug satisfaction sweeping through him, erasing all of the irritation and ennui. He'd never admit that he liked Mycroft's suggestion. He ate, however, when the food came, Mycroft's choices, of course, perfect.

"Out, both of you, if you please," Mycroft said once everyone had finished, his crisp exterior wilted some. "I suggest getting some rest so we might be fresh later."

John nodded and nudged Sherlock's elbow as he rose. "Four hours?"

"We can afford six. Moriarty has no plans of moving yet. And shows no signs of knowing we're here. However, I do have people watching the house, my number on speed dial, should there be any signs of movement."

Sherlock was out the door and in his and John's room, door cracked when Mycroft had finished. He dropped onto the bed, suddenly feeling quite tired. Kicking off his shoes, he curled up on top of the duvet, nerves jittering back into place beneath his skin, buzzing and crawling. He wanted this to be over yesterday. Moriarty could not be allowed to exist any longer. And could not receive a trial, fair or otherwise. He didn't deserve it. Sherlock would be judge, jury, and executioner.

The door clicked shut behind John and he heard his shoes drop to the ground before the bed dipped. "Sherlock?"

"I'm awake. My mobile is set. Though I'm sure Mycroft would wake us should we miss the alarm. Get some rest."

"Budge. I'm going to pull the duvet down. You're somehow managing to take up the entire bed, you know."

He sighed and rolled off to pull the duvet down before returning to his partly warmed space, giving John a grin before curling onto his side.

John sighed and laid flat in the space left him.

"John..." he mumbled, reaching back and pulling at his hip. He stopped when he felt John's body curl around his. "Better."

"You're ridiculous," the other said, but his arm dropped over Sherlock's waist.

Surrounded by an unexpected feeling of _home_ , Sherlock slept.

* * *

Three hours later, his mobile rang. He lifted it to his ear. "Hello."

"Cherie... You've come back to me."

He stiffened, frozen.

"I was _so_ upset about my home in Egypt. Acheri didn't make it. It's alright. I've replaced him. And dear Sebastian is back at my side. Were you sleeping, Cherie? So sorry to wake you. I just wanted to say goodbye. You have too many friends with you for us to play."

"Moriarty, you _fuck_."

Laughter tinkled through the speaker. "Ooh, such language! I'll have to break that from you. Hardly appropriate behaviour. Anyway—"

"You and me," he hissed quietly, forcing himself to relax so as not to wake John. "We'll meet and settle this."

"Alas. Not this time, I'm afraid, Cherie." Moriarty's voice lost it's teasing quality, now flat and lifeless.

"We _will_ end this. Here."

"No. We won't."

"Moriarty, you—"

"As amusing as your temper is, we will not. Your brother is quite persistent in destroying my network and well. A man has to have some legacy, doesn't he, Sherlock."

He flinched.

"We all just want to be immortal after all. I shall see you in Switzerland, however. Perhaps we might establish dominance then, yes?"

"No!" he shouted, squirming free of John's embrace, waking the man. "I wan—" he broke off into a low steady stream of curses as the line went dead.

"Sherlock?" John said groggily.

" _Fuck_."

"What happened?" He was instantly awake.

"Moriarty," he spat. "He's gone." He rolled off the bed and stalked to the door.

"What?" John yelped.

Hand on the knob, he took a deep shuddering breath. "He's gone. Escaped our reach. Out of our grasp. Gone." He blinked at John's growl and thunder in his face.

John pushed passed him and stalked down the hall, thumping on Mycroft's door until his brother answer.

"John."

"You _screwed_ up, Mycroft. Moriarty knew we were here and now he's gone."

His heart swelled with more than a little pride as John's ferocity forced Mycroft back a step, John pursuing. Sherlock slipped through the door and shut it behind them.

"You let him _slip_ through your grasp! We were so close, and now we'll have to start all over!"

"John!" Mycroft protested.

"Actually, we won't have to start _all_ over."

"We won't?" John turned to him.

Mycroft was immediately on his mobile, snapping orders and questions.

"No. He said he'd be in Switzerland."

John frowned at him, brow creased.

"I'm fine, John. He just taunted. Words." He started at Mycroft's curse. "He's gone," he said flatly.

"He's gone," his brother replied smoothly.

"Then, to Switzerland," John said, folding his arms across his chest.

* * *

"I hate the cold," Sherlock said five days later, arms wrapped around his torso as he gazed out the window of the inn.

"So you've said. Five times, Sherlock. Here I thought you didn't like repeating yourself," Mycroft commented.

"He's here."

"Yes."

"That's great," John said, returning from the loo, "but we need to find _where_. And the two of you jabbering, as usual, is not going to help."

"How has locating his people gone?" Sherlock asked his brother.

"They have slowly been taken out of the picture."

"Get me the map, John." Sherlock held out a hand, looking over some of the photographs more recently acquired. Sorting them, he made room for the map John unrolled for him.

"What are you thinking?" John retook his place next to him.

"He said he wanted to 'play.' One on one." He flicked a glance at Mycroft, his brother's face carefully blank. "So he'd want to be somewhere isolated. Where he might have an advantage. This picture... His shoes... Built for snow weather—and water-proofing. Mountains? Water-proof jacket with a liner for warmth. Skiing...No..." he growled. "Where _is_ he!" He scoured the map. "Snow. Water. _Here_!" He stabbed his finger down on top of Reichenbach Falls. "I'm sure of it."

Mycroft and John crowded in, John's lips thinning into a pale line, Mycroft's brow creasing, mouth turned ever so slightly down.

"You're not going alone."

"Of course not, John."

"He expects you to go alone," Mycroft said carefully.

"Of course he does. Previously, I _would_ have," Sherlock said, looking at the map like it had something more to say.

"What would you like me to prepare," Mycroft said, leaning back in the arm chair, fingers steepled. He recrossed his legs.

"Let me think on it. He'll wait for me." He was certain. Mycroft closing in from the shadows, Sherlock stepping into the spotlight, this was where it was going to end. "John, let's go downstairs. I want tea."

"I want whiskey," John muttered once they were in the hall.

Sherlock stilled him when they paused in front of the lift. "I love you."

John's eyes grew, satisfyingly, two sizes. "Where did that come from?"

"I wanted to tell you."

John narrowed his eyes. "You're not running off, are you?"

"Of course not." He shook his head, feelings running rampant beneath his skin, across his mind. "I wanted..." The door dinged open and a couple exited. "I know you love me, and I wanted to... I feel the same way. For certain. And I wished to express it clearly. When it didn't matter. So you know... I mean it."

John smiled. "Well I do love you. And I am glad to hear it."

Sherlock nodded and then faced front in the lift, catching sight of his reflection in the doors. He didn't look any different. Same man. Same face. Same mind. He looked at John, sappy smile still spread prettily across his lips. He smiled too.

Their reflections rippled and vanished as the doors opened.

"We really are getting tea, yeah?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Because I did want some." John sent him a sideways glance as they found a table in the dining room and sat. "I am a fair shot with a sniper's rifle..."

Sherlock laughed.

"I like that," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Your laughter."

Sherlock shook his head.

"It's fine. Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about without Mycroft?"

"Hm? No. Nothing. Just your company." He quieted as a waitress came over and took their orders: tea and a muffin for John, tea and a cherry pastry for Sherlock. "I would like to have sex with you tonight," he said once she'd gone. He was only mildly annoyed when John choked on air. "Why is this always your reaction? You _have_ had sexual intercourse before. You're no prude."

John gaped a little, face still stuck once the waitress returned with their tea and pastries. "S-sorry. I..." He flushed brighter and looked away. "You bring it up so unexpectedly. And so...matter of fact. I'm not used to it. And I'm still not used to the idea of _you_ and sex..." A small glance up. "I _do_ want it."

"Then tonight," he said firmly.

John winced.

"What now?"

"With your brother next door?"

He grinned, enjoying the shudder running through John as he leaned across the table and murmured, " _Make_ him hear me."

John's eyes blew wide, and he sucked in air like a drowning man. "Fuck later. Finish your tea; we're going upstairs now."

Tea drained, le let John grab him up and drag him to the lift by his wrist. When it didn't come fast enough, he dragged Sherlock to the stairs and prodded him up before him. He was breathless from laughter and _want_ by the time his fingers uncharacteristically fumbled the keycard in the door.

Breath hot on Sherlock's neck, John laughed. "Want me to do it?"

Sherlock felt flush, embarrassment making him elbow John gently.

John laughed again and they stumbled into the room, Sherlock discarding his jacket and shirt to wherever they might fall. John had his shoes off and socks tucked inside so neatly that Sherlock giggled. He kissed the confused expression off John's face and removed the man of his belt and jumper.

"How..." John panted, "how are your ribs?"

He growled against John's neck, biting down on soft tissue, positively _heady_ with the needy noise from John's lips.

"Sherlock..."

"Fine enough for sex." He pushed and John's eyes flew wide as he twisted, but bounced on the bed. Crawling up after him to straddle his hips, Sherlock pinned John's shoulders and kissed him hungrily, licking into his mouth to discover the taste of John's air. He squirmed until John got frustrated enough to flip them. "Yes," he hissed softly.

John undid his trousers and pulled both those and his pants down to toss aside. "Have you..."

Sherlock squirmed and dropped his arm over the side of the bed into his suitcase, rummaging until he returned with a condom and travel bottle of lube. "These should be to your liking."

John caught the items. Snorted. "Perhaps because you stole them from _my_ nightstand..."

Sherlock grinned. "Why would we not use what you like. Come on, John." And squirmed impatiently, his prick in the air.

"Jesus. You've done this before?"

"Yes. Come on, John."

"Slow down. We've got time," he said, voice husky and low. "Are you lying to me."

"No."

"Sherlock—"

"No!" he snapped.

John pulled back. "Sherlock."

"Yes! I have!" he groused, folding his arms.

John stared at him.

"Twice!" Dropped his head t to the side. "But I did not enjoy it."

John reeled back, brows flying up.

"Oh stop it," he snapped, flushing. "I was experimenting. Neither time was enjoyable. This, I expect, will not be the case. As you might have observed, I want this." He gestured irritably at his cock.

John followed his hand, lips quirking at the sight. "I want to—"

"John Watson," Sherlock hissed, rocking his hips up. "If you do not have sex with me _right_ _now,_ so help me!"

Eyes flying wide, John's mouth rounded into an 'o.'

Sherlock glared up at him, unfolding his arms to grab John's biceps. "So make it good," he hissed.

John smiled and picked up the bottle of lube.

* * *

He woke later to John's mouth on his, stealing his air. Crooning softly, he arched into it, panting when John pulled off.

"Should have known you'd like weird stuff."

Sherlock blinked lazily, sun filtering in through the blinds. "Morning."

"Yes, Sherlock. It is." John shifted back, chin in hand, an amused grin on his face.

He leaned up and glanced at the clock. "We have plenty of time before we should meet Mycroft to go again."

John huffed softly. "Or we can shower and take care of this at the same time."

"Yes," he purred, feeling his prick twitch with interest. He did hope, however, that this wasn't going to be a continuous problem. Becoming erect at inopportune moments would be unacceptable.

"Up then..." John said as he rolled out of bed and padded towards the bathroom.

Sherlock followed the sight of John's arse quickly and discovered the joys of John sucking him down under the hot spray and then being pushed into the tiles, John heavy and solid behind him. Once done, he let John wash his hair and towel him dry. And when they were both dressed and presentable, Mycroft knocked, and they went to breakfast.

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock said blandly.

"Perhaps sexual intercourse does cause a loss in brain capacity, for as you've noticed, I've not said a thing," his brother replied smugly, sipping his tea.

"Shut up, Mycroft," John said, smiling, the butter knife stilled in his hand.

Mycroft shut his mouth. Sherlock loved John fiercely. "Very well. Down to business then. Sherlock. Have you come up with a plan?"

He sighed, sipping his tea. "John. You said you're a capable sniper?"

"I can be."

He nodded. "I want you planted within range. Mycroft, I'll trust you to make sure he doesn't have any accessories laying about."

"Of course."

"I need a gun."

Mycroft nodded.

"I'll meet him one on one. That's what he wants. John, you'll cover me, and Mycroft will ensure Moriarty is on his own. He wants me to meet him by the Falls. I assume he'll leave me a clue as to where he wants me."

"I don't like this plan," John said immediately.

"I know. But he expects me to meet him alone. So I will leave in secret, make it look like I've snuck away. Then ten minutes after I've left on foot, you'll follow. I assume that will be easy for you, Mycroft."

His brother nodded, clearly not pleased if the twitch of his lips was anything to go by.

"Excellent. He'll want to talk. Give me one more chance," Sherlock continued, fighting the dread that filled him at the thought of being alone with the man. He looked sharply at John when the other man's hand came down on his knee. Smiled. He wasn't going to be alone.

"Your public displays of affection sicken me," Mycroft said.

"The dining room has some lovely silk lace pie," Sherlock retorted, eyes not leaving John's face.

"Let's please try to stay focused, Sherlock," Mycroft said blandly, folding his hands loosely in his lap.

Huffing softly he rolled his eyes. "He'll want me back. And when I refuse, I expect he'll give an order to shoot me. Only Mycroft will have taken care of that. Then I will shoot him, and this whole messy ordeal shall be finished."

"Acceptable." Mycroft looked to John who nodded once after a moment's consideration.

"Fine." He rolled to his feet and had his mobile calling back the number Moriarty had used to call him.

"Hello?" a feeble voice answered.

"Moriarty," Sherlock ordered calmly.

The voice gasped and then Moriarty's crazed tones oozed through. "I'm glad you haven't forgotten me."

"Not forgotten." He ignored Moriarty's giggle. "Merely on the back burner. So we're to meet at the Falls then?"

"Ooh clever boy... Just one more thing I _love_ about you."

"When."

"And you're even letting me pick the time?"

"Tomorrow night."

"No. Tonight," Moriarty swiftly countered.

"Fine."

"Ta, Cherie!" And then he rang off.

Sherlock smiled.

"What did he say?" John asked, half out of his chair.

"Tonight."

"Tonight? But you said—"

"Oh relax, John. Mycroft will have everything ready, and he thinks he's put us off. Tonight couldn't be more perfect. No moon. You'll have more cover."

"Well," John said with a frown and a glance at Mycroft. "We'd better get prepared."

* * *

Sherlock made sure to storm out of Mycroft's room, leaving John behind, kick off his shoes in his own room after flinging himself dramatically on the bed for the man who was spying from across the street.

When it got dark, he crept around the room for the things he'd need—his jacket with the gun in the pocket, scarf, hat, rope, a blade for the other pocket, gloves, hiking boots, his mobile, and a torch. He already knew the way, having memorised a map of the area. He was silent, sneaking past Mycroft's door. Back stairs took him to the rear exit and he began the hike, pressing the send button for the pre-typed message to his brother. Ten minutes hence would find him and John leaving on snow mobiles to get in place.

The snow was an irritating hindrance.

And it was cold.

Sherlock grit his teeth and shoved his hands into his armpits. Before long, it was snowing, fat flakes that clung to his coat and hat, cold seeping through his clothes until he was shivering.

He snarled at the white pieces filling in his tracks. Huffing, he paused on an out-cropping, The casual tourist. To an outsider.

But Moriarty was not an outsider.

He wanted to twitch as Moriarty crept from the shadows behind him.

"Cherie... You've decided to join me..." he purred.

"Moriarty!" He pasted a smile on his face and turned. Clasped his hands in front of him. "What is your end game."

Moriarty affected a pout. "Right to business. That's dull."

"Sorry. I have to admit: I've grown bored." He jerked his chin up.

"Liar," Moriarty hissed, face twisting into something ugly.

He shrugged. "Bored."

"I don't believe you!"

"Believe what you like. You're repeating yourself. Which is bo-ring. You're too small, Moriarty. You're not worth my time any longer."

"You _need_ me!" Moriarty shrieked, taking a half step forward.

"Bullshit," he said flatly, folding his arms. "This is the end. Our relationship is over. I never needed you."

"You don't mean that," he said, almost gentle, pleading. He took a step forward.

"You'll find I do," he said as he drew the gun, aiming at Moriarty's head.

"Sherlock..." he tsked. "You remember, surely, what happened the last time you pointed a gun at me."

"Of course," he replied with a grim smile. "Which is why it's my game tonight. Give it up. I want to hear you say it, you bastard. Or else I'll shoot you in the knee and give you over to John."

"Always John, is it, Cherie. He's so dull."

"Hardly. Not that I need to be discussing this with you. Tell me you give." He fired a shot in the snow by his feet.

Moriarty looked down at the hole in the snow before looking back up at Sherlock. He cocked his head. "Do you know why I picked this location, Sherlock?"

"I don't care," he forced himself to say, gun steady, the falls thundering behind him.

"I'm going to tell you anyway. And you're going to listen because you _are_ curious." His lips spread in a crazed smile, the whites of his teeth bright despite the darkness. "If we're to be enemies we have to have a final showdown after all. It's just how these things are done. I've always had a propensity for Switzerland. Romanticised when when I was a boy, you know. I adore it. Clocks, watches, skiing, snow, cacao. The Falls."

Sherlock frowned. This was getting off track. Something wasn't right.

"I love the Falls, Sherlock. They're grand. Big. And..." He held up a finger, "they can hide the noise of a helicopter!"

Sherlock cursed and spun, seeing the 'copter hovering, ladder extended from it. Spinning again to Moriarty, he brought the gun back up, firing. He sidestepped as the man almost knocked him off balance, the soft _ffffft_! of the sniper bullets from John whizzing by.

He cursed again, time slowing as both he and John missed. One more round. Lining up, he shot, the bullet catching Moriarty's side as he was sprinting towards the edge of the cliff. He cried out, twisted joy lighting in Sherlock's gut, until Moriarty was up again and lurching for the ladder. "Fuck!"

He was going to have to jump a bit, but Moriarty would make it—more searching, more games, more taunts, more interruptions, more fear, more pain, more waiting, more uncertainty—"Fuck!"

And then his legs were carrying him towards the cliff, Moriarty...

Moriarty was jumping.

Sherlock dove.

A gunshot.

Clipped Moriarty's shoulder.

One hand on the ladder.

Sherlock's arms firmly around his middle.

Hand slipped off in the spray.

They fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliff-hanger! :)


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, my fabulous friends and readers, is the end of 'Freak.' The last chapter. I so hope that you've enjoyed reading it. I've had a great time writing it and I've enjoyed writing it. I'm a little sad it's over, but now I'm on to other things. :)
> 
> If you're interested, you can find a soundtrack alone with wallpaper to go along with this fic over at my livejournal: http://shinkonokokoro.livejournal.com/66719.html
> 
> So thanks for reading and for all of your lovely comments and everything. I've really appreciated them. :)

Why didn't he just shoot him? John kept Moriarty firmly in focus. This was going badly. This wasn't right. There was something wrong here. John cursed under his breath.

Wait... What was he doing? This was bad. Moriarty was talking. And _holy_ _fuck_ _that_ _was_ _a_ _helicopter_. He squeezed off a few shots as Moriarty took off running, cursed when he got too close to Sherlock and then out of sight. He scrambled up and half slid down the embankment to get a better shot, dropping the rifle and pulling his Browning loose.

His heart dropped to his stomach as he rounded the bend to see Sherlock running after Moriarty to the cliff-edge.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed, firing at Moriarty's back.

But Sherlock, _stupid_ Sherlock was already jumping.

John couldn't breathe.

Moriarty's hand caught, but Sherlock's sudden weight tore him loose. And then they disappeared into the spray.

He sprinted to the edge. Fell to his knees. Nothing. He was only aware of his screaming when he couldn't anymore.

"John...?" Mycroft's voice came, soft enough that he almost didn't hear it over the roar of water.

"Mycroft! Thank _fuck_! Call rescue services! Call— _Mycroft_!" he snapped, scrambling to his feet. "What the fuck are you doing?" He waved his hands at the man, staring dazedly at the cliff edge. "Mycroft! We need to get to the bottom! Get your arse on the phone! He could... Let's get to the snow mobiles!" He cast one last look at the cliff, refusing to believe the worst before manhandling a stunned Mycroft to the machines.

* * *

Searching until dawn with floodlights and torches and aid that John had to call for himself yielded no results. Mycroft looked shell-shocked, sitting by an emergency vehicle, a hot Thermos in his hands and a dry blanket over his shoulders.

John forced his way in amongst the rescue workers who tried to avoid giving him pitying glances after he'd cussed a person out for offering condolences.

There were shouts further down suddenly, and John was there as soon as he was able.. They were pulling a body from the river. He swallowed his heart back to his abdominal cavity. "Oh God..." He inched forwards—not wanting to see— "Oh thank God. Moriarty. This is the other man. Dead?"

The person looked up at him, trying to look appropriately sad.

"Don't bother. He's a criminal mass-murderer. Find the... Find Sherlock!" He ducked back to Mycroft. "They found Moriarty. Dead. We'll have to track down Moran... Mycroft?"

"Yes. Yes..."

"Dammit! Pull yourself together!" John hissed, panic at Mycroft's disengagement. Made him jittery. "We'll find him."

"Reichenbach Falls. Total drop of 250 meters, flow reduced by a hydro-electric damn, funicular opened 1899, water—"

"Shut up! Shut _up_!" He downed some hot tea and then waded back into the water. There until his legs were numb, the Swiss rescue workers finally pulled John bodily from the water claiming the need for rest. He didn't remember fighting them until he was pushed down next to Mycroft, hot tea pushed into his hands a second time, and a blanket tucked around him.

"Where is he," he whispered hollowly.

"I didn't..." Mycroft shook his head, his last look frightening John more than anything else. "It wasn't supposed to go like this..."

"Of _course_ it bloody wasn't!" John snapped. He stood. "Find. Moran. Destroy him." Pacing a few steps, John nibbled his lip as the people began to pack up. "What are you doing?"

"Sir, we're very sorry for your loss—"

John punched him.

Another worker rushed over. "Sir! You can't—Jesus." He looked to Mycroft. "Take him home. We've looked for hours and have had no sign of your friend."

"My brother. My baby brother."

The man's face shifted into something like sympathy. "I'm sorry. But we can't spend anymore time. Get your friend home—"

"A hotel," John said numbly.

"The hotel. We'll ask for a report later." He turned, leading the bruising worker away.

"John," Mycroft said quietly. "Let's go."

He didn't remember the trip back, shaking with silent sobs, cursing Sherlock for his impulsiveness. He stood, too tired to move at the entrance gate of the hotel. Mycroft hovered at his shoulder. "This..." He shook his head. "There's nothing left."

"Moran. I have to finish Moran."

"Let's just get some sleep for now," he said, making one foot go before the other. He grabbed Mycroft by the elbow, the girl behind the desk giving them a strange look. The lift took them up to their floor. John left Mycroft at his door, padding down to his and Sher—his room, feet squelching in his soaked shoes. Stopping, hand on the knob, he frowned. Pushed the unlocked door open. Lifted his Browning and releasing the safety. Inching inside, he flicked the light and almost dropped the gun.

Sherlock. Laid out haphazardly on the bed. Pale and soaked through.

"Oh God." Then he did drop the Browning, rushing to the bed for Sherlock's pulse. "Fuck." He was alive. He was alive. _Alive_. His hands shook as he started peeling off the sopping coat. "Mycroft!" he screamed. Sherlock twitched. "Bloody hell, you daft bastard," he said viciously, carefully removing the coat. "Twice now. You can't fucking do this! I— _MYCROFT_!" He sucked in air at the unnatural angle of his arm.

"Oh God..." Mycroft moaned from somewhere behind him.

"He's alive! Now call a fucking ambulance and move my gun!" He snapped, thrashing through drawers for a pair of scissors. "Now! He needs an ambulance. He's out, arm broken, probable concussion, and hell if I know the state of his ribs!"

"Yes, I need an ambulance. Room 317. Immediately." He hung up and then brought scissors to John.

"Sorry," he said, not really, as he cut Sherlock's coat off. "Go get the dry towels. I don't—I shouldn't move him." He growled in frustration. " _Fuck_." Pulling the wet ruined clothes away, John tucked the offered towels around him, rubbing the chance of warmth into Sherlock. Sherlock. Alive. Alive but too pale and sunken looking with his damp curls plastered to his face. "Come on, Sherlock. Wake up please." His heart hammered through his head. Sherlock's pulse still felt weak.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked as the wail of an emergency vehicle could be heard.

"Alive." Mycroft edged into his vision, face tight as he looked down at his brother.

"Good. Good..." Then stepped out of the way as the thunder of feet could be heard coming down the hall.

In a blur of efficiency, Sherlock was bundled onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, Mycroft and John smooshed into the back for the ride to the hospital.

"John," Sherlock rasped, twitching slightly.

"Here. I'm here. Don't worry. You're in the ambulance. You're safe. Don't thrash about. Yeah. There you go."

"Came back..."

"I know you did. Good job, Sherlock. Except you shouldn't have dived into a waterfall in the first place," he said softly, gripping his hand, hot and worried.

"Had to...win..." he broke off coughing, the noise ending in a pitiful sort of moan.

"No more cliff-diving for you," John murmured, reaching up to smooth his hair.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes. We're at the hospital. Mr.'s Watson and Holmes, please make your way to the waiting room to fill out paperwork while we get him checked out.

John nodded and guided Mycroft in until the man shook him off with a half-heated glare. John found a chair and sat.

Mycroft's hand flew across the clipboard and then the keyboard of his phone when he'd finished. His brow was scrunched downwards in a rare display of upset and concentration.

They waited.

* * *

Pacing until Mycroft snapped at him, he settled for fidgeting in his chair restlessly, worry-fuelled now instead of adrenaline or desperation. He was half out of his seat every time hospital staff rounded the corner and came into view.

Mycroft's sigh made him jump, and John's gaze followed him to the desk. One short murmured conversation and Mycroft was beckoning John over. "Were going in to see him. They've just finished the x-rays. They're not finished over all, but I've convinced them. Not to mention, John, that your restlessness is driving me mad. He'll be fine."

"Of course he'll be fine!" The contrary hadn't even crossed his mind. "I just... I need to see him."

Mycroft's hand on his shoulder guided him through the halls. They paused, however, just at the edge of the window. Sherlock was smothered in blankets, bandaged and small-looking again.

The scene made John's heart lurch. It wasn't, of course, as bad as the last time they'd found Sherlock in a hospital. And yet...

Sherlock spotted them and gave a weak wave of his hand.

John rushed to his side.

"I'm fine, John," he murmured tiredly.

"Your definition of 'fine' needs a readjustment."

"Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotionally unstable," Sherlock snipped back, lips twitching. "I'm always _Fine_."

John could feel his relief at the joke, but it didn't transfer to his face where his jaw felt tight, brow stiff. "We thought you _died_ , Sherlock."

The other man's eyes fluttered. "I thought you'd come back to the inn sooner."

"We were _looking_ for you!" His voice was going shrill. He didn't care.

"Looked longer for what I accounted..."

"We found Moriarty's body," Mycroft interjected.

Sherlock's eyes opened narrowly. "Good."

"Bastard's dead," John said. He watched Sherlock relax minutely. "It's over."

"'Body' does usually imply a corpse, John."

"Once I eliminate Moran."

They both looked at Mycroft. He shrugged.

"This is my part. Sherlock is clearly in no state to go anywhere, and I suspect John is ready to willingly play nursemaid."

Sherlock arched a brow. "Mycroft's just feeling useless and guilty. Even if I'm sure John would enjoy playing nursemaid."

"Sherlock..." John said lowly.

Tossing his head gently, Sherlock snorted, winced, broke off coughing until he moaned and went limp into the pillows.

John could only hover uselessly, unsure of where to place hands, until he finally settled for folding one of Sherlock's within his.

"I'm not dying," he croaked, turning a fond glance upon John. "That isn't to say that I would mind John playing nursemaid."

Mycroft made a noise behind him. "Very well then. That is settled."

"How long before I can go home?" Sherlock asked, eyelids fluttering.

"You should rest," John said immediately. "You'll need to stay at least a week, what with your broken ribs, concussion, broken arm, and hypothermia. You also resprained your ankle, you berk. You can't be comfortably moved. I'll try to make sure you've got something to do so you're not too bored. Don't sulk."

"If I have to be bored, I would hope to do it in the comfort of my own home," he groused. "Don't stay all the time, John. You've not seen Switzerland."

"I've seen enough," he replied darkly.

"Come on. Mycroft's footing the bill. See what they have to offer. I'll be fine here."

John felt his brows shoot up. "Are you—"

"Yes. It's fine. I'll stay put and not aggravate the hospital staff."

Eyeing Mycroft, John kept his mouth shut lest Sherlock change his mind. He'd take small graces where he could get them.

"Go ahead and go back to the inn. Get some rest," Sherlock ordered weakly.

Surprised for the second time in as many minutes, John leaned back.

Sherlock squeezed his hand and then nodded. "Go on. You're both exhausted."

"You're sure?"

"John. Moriarty is dead. I'm tired. You're tired. Go get rest."

Mycroft nodded and moved to the door, waiting for John. "I'll call a taxi."

John nodded absently, waiting for the clack of shoes to fade. "You're sure, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled. "John. I'm trying to be a responsible adult. Go. Home."

Laughing softly, he stood and bent over to kiss his temple. "Fine. I'll go back to the inn. I just wanted to be sure. "

"I can see that. I will text you if I need anything. I'm...mostly comfortable, I feel safe, and very tired. Diving off a waterfall is exhausting work."

"You must have hit your head harder than we thought if you're cracking jokes."

"I will see you later, John. Get some rest so you can take care of me."

"You're a complete idiot, you know that?"

Sherlock blinked blearily at him.

"You can't..." He swallowed. "You can't _do_ that, Sherlock. Do you know... Sherlock, my _heart_ when I saw you go down..." He shook his head and ignored the tightness in his chest. Jerked at Sherlock's hand on his.

"I am sorry, John. I had to... I had to end it. You understand."

"I do," he said finally, softly. "But please..."

"There should not be a next time, John. But I will do my utmost to not make you worry."

Looking around quickly, John dipped his head for a parting kiss. "That's the best I'll get."

"Go get some rest," Sherlock said again, lips tilted up.

He smiled and then joined Mycroft in the taxi for the ride back to the inn. He stumbled upstairs, pausing in the doorway. Housekeeping had changed the sheets. He vaguely hoped they'd be able to get the blood out.

Then he was suddenly furious.

Damn you, Sherlock for being reckless and nearly dying.

Damn you, Moriarty for being a crazy, miserable, fucked up, sorry son of a bitch. For making Sherlock desperate. For dragging him down—feeling the need to jump into a waterfall—for chasing—for needing to end it—for wanting something he couldn't ever have—for being a manipulative bloody arse—for being hard to fine—for—" _Fuck_."

He shut the door and leaned back against it, head dipping to his chest before he stripped, grabbed a blanket, and slept on the sofa.

* * *

John did end up seeing some sights. But he hovered at the back of the group, hands stuffed in his pockets, chin tucked into his scarf.

Mostly, he sat by Sherlock's bedside. Talking. Watching him sleep. Grateful he was alive.

"You're amazing, you know that," John blurted in the middle of one of Sherlock's diatribes on...something.

The man blinked at him in surprise. "John?"

"You utterly are," he said, awe tingeing his voice. "How man men jump into a waterfall and come out alive?"

"I had to get back to you," Sherlock said with a small furrow between his brows.

He sucked in air, felt his eyes burn. "Sherlock Holmes."

"John...?"

Bending quickly, he kissed Sherlock until the heart monitor beeped more quickly, Sherlock groaned, and he pushed him off.

"We...can't..." he murmured breathlessly. "Not here... You'll make... nurses. They'll come... John..."

John sighed and fell back into his chair. "I love you."

The small fond smile that John had come to recognise as _his_ spread across Sherlock's lips. "I do love you, John."

"We can take you back home tomorrow."

"I look forward to it."

* * *

John watched Sherlock sigh, some of the tension draining, as soon as they entered 221B. Mrs. Hudson was all aflutter, bringing up extra casserole and muffins and tea. As soon as Sherlock was settled on the sofa, John draped a blanket over him. People fussed, Mycroft stood in the background like an unexpected wallflower, and even Lestrade dropped by.

But when they'd all left, John collapsed next to Sherlock who managed to lift his lips in a tired smile. "When I'm able, I fully expect us to...how do they say... _christen_ my bed."

John was too tired to blush or shake his head, so he settled for a sigh and shifted, pulling Sherlock down on his chest. "Come on then. Let's settle for napping on the sofa yet, yeah?"

Stretching his legs up onto the arm of the sofa, Sherlock made a contented noise and let his head fall onto John's shoulder. "I won't crush your bad shoulder lying here all night?"

"It'll be fine," John said, linking his hands on Sherlock's belly. "I can't wait to christen your bed. However, I want your ribs _fully_ healed."

"Of course, Doctor Watson," Sherlock purred.

"You'll go back to working with Lestrade?"

"I think I should."

"Should?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I dunno. Why wouldn't you."

Sherlock huffed. "It will give me something to do when it's not you."

"Thank you," he said dryly. "That's... that's lovely, Sherlock."

"I enjoyed it very much, you know. I don't think I told you. I know you were insecure about it."

John groaned. "Can we please stop talking about this right now? Especially considering we can't exactly do much about it when you're injured?"

Sherlock chuckled, shuffling a little on top of John. "As you wish."

Leaning his head back against the arm, John pulled the throw around them and reached up to flick off the lamp. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

* * *

It was some time later when they'd just returned, sweaty and adrenaline-amped from helping Lestrade with a case that the moment was right. John eyed Sherlock with a breathless smile and Sherlock tilted his head and canted his hip against the door. They left a trail of clothes to Sherlock's bedroom until they were sweaty and exhausted and sated, and Sherlock realised that there might be some merit in the clichéd adage: Home is where the heart is.


End file.
